Steel's Edge

SIXTEEN

CHARLOTTE sat in a chaise on her balcony, sipping bloodred tea from her cup and subtly watching Brennan seethe in his chair, directly across the coffee table. To the right Sophie sat quietly reading a book. To the left, on the divan, the Duchess of the Southern Provinces lounged, drinking her tea in tiny swallows and carrying on a conversation.

He must’ve expected that Sophie and whoever she had invited wouldn’t be much of an obstacle. He could bully most people out of the way by the simple fact of his birth. But Lady Olivia provided an impenetrable barrier. She was older, well regarded, and her influence and power surpassed his. His Highness was forced to behave, and he didn’t like it. The small talk was clearly grating on him. He was desperately bored.

Almost bored enough to pick up the album she had placed on the coffee table within his reach. A foot long by a foot wide, bound in luxurious brown leather and embossed with a silver serpent biting his own tail, a symbol of the Ganer College, the album held approximately eighty pages of heavyweight paper interweaved with glassine tissue. It beckoned to be picked up.

Just a little more, Charlotte thought. A little longer.

Lady Olivia launched into a discussion of the agricultural properties of oranges.

Brennan hid a yawn, leaned forward . . . and picked up the album.

Lady Olivia glanced at Charlotte and took a moment to snack on cookies.

“What an exquisite book,” Brennan said, obviously relieved at the opportunity to jump-start the conversation. “Are these members of your family?”

“No, my lord.” Charlotte sipped her tea. “They are my greatest triumphs as a healer. The truth is, we are a vain lot.”

Brennan turned the page and winced. “Dear gods, this child is horribly burned.”

“An unfortunate accident,” Charlotte said. “She was trapped in a barn during a brush fire that had overtaken the village. If you turn the page, you will see that she was considerably better after I was done. Burns are difficult to heal completely, but we had a modest success with her.”

Brennan turned the page. “This is uncanny.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my dear,” the duchess murmured.

She had to keep him looking through the book. “I believe there is a worse case a little further.”

Brennan flipped a page. Another. Another. His hand froze.

Bull’s-eye.

“This man.” Brennan turned the album, holding it with one hand so she could see it. A picture of Richard looked back at her. He looked a few years younger. His hair was longer, but the image bore an unmistakable resemblance to the poster of Hunter.

Brennan’s quiet voice held the steel overtone of command. “Tell me about this man.”

Lady Olivia raised her eyebrows. Charlotte leaned forward, looking at the image. “This isn’t one of the worst cases.”

“Please. Indulge me.”

“Very well. He was a soldier, one of those extremely dangerous, covert types. You know, the sort who are released into the woods with nothing but a knife and a length of rope and retrieved a week later, after they have single-handedly demolished an enemy legion. He’d been very badly wounded. His liver and kidney had been sliced through with a spear, and by the time he was brought to me, he was delirious. He kept recounting his proudest moments in life—being chosen for his unit, his son’s being born, and Lord Maedoc presenting him with the Shield of Valor.”

“Are you certain?” Brennan’s face had gone completely flat.

“Yes. Fever does strange things to the mind. He went on and on about his son’s eyes and Lord Maedoc’s demeanor. I believe he got to spend some time with Lord Maedoc after the ceremony, and it was the highlight of his service. His healing took approximately sixteen hours. I was exhausted and had to rest. When I came to check on him the next day, some soldiers had collected him and left.”

“Maedoc?” Brennan repeated. “Was that their commanding officer?”

“Yes. I was upset that the College released him—he was in no shape to travel, really—and so I made the staff get the release order so I could check the seal on it. Is this important?”

“Not at all.” Brennan shut the album and turned to Lady Olivia. “You were telling us about oranges, Your Grace?”

RICHARD studied himself in the mirror. The man who looked back at him was nothing like him. Stolen face, stolen clothes, another man’s sword. They were tools, he told himself. Tools of his trade. She loved him anyway. She loved him.

Someone knocked on the door in a rapid staccato. Kolin, his second cousin, glanced at him. Richard nodded. Kolin swung the door open.

Brennan strode in, almost knocking Kolin over. His face shone with grim determination. Behind him Rene paused at the doorway, his face bloodless.

“Get your sword and come with me,” Brennan said.

“Did something happen?”

“Casside, get your sword.”

Richard belted his rapier on. Brennan spun on his foot and marched out. Richard followed him, striding side by side with Rene down the hallway. They climbed the ladder, crossed another hallway, and stepped into a metal-and-glass lift. Brennan punched a code into the panel, and the small cabin slid upward. Stone flashed by, then daylight streamed in. They were rising straight up the side of the castle.

“Hunter belongs to Maedoc,” Brennan said. “He’s his creature.”

“Are you sure?” Rene asked.

Brennan turned to him, his face skewed by fury, and Rene took a step back.

“It was quite clever of him. Use the Hunter to destabilize the slave trade, make me appear weak, foster the discontent as all of us lost money. I thought he was too limited for a plan like this, but he fooled us all.”

“What are you going to do?” Rene asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Not just me. All of us.”

The cabin stopped. The gears in the wall turned, the doors opened, and they stepped out onto a narrow balcony, overshadowed by a spire. Far below, the river glistened. They were at the very top of the castle.

At the other end of the balcony, Maedoc and Angelia stood by the stone rail. Angelia’s face was bloodless. Fear shivered in her eyes like a small animal trapped in a corner.

“What was so important?” Maedoc asked.

She pointed at them.

Maedoc turned. “Brennan? What’s going on?”

“We have a traitor,” Brennan said, closing the distance between them. “The one who’s behind Hunter and the attack on the island.”

“Who?” Maedoc frowned.

Brennan jerked a dagger from his sheath and thrust it in Maedoc’s right side.

Angelia choked on a scream.

Brennan pulled the dagger down through the flesh with a sharp jerk, his face inches from Maedoc’s shocked eyes, and pulled the blade out. The initial thrust probably punctured the lung, Richard decided. The rip lacerated Maedoc’s liver.

“What are you doing?” Rene squeezed out. “Robert, what are you . . .”

Maedoc sank against the rail, struggling to stay upright. Brennan stepped over to Rene and thrust the bloody dagger into his hand. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“Your turn, you spineless shit. We’re in this together. Do it or join him.”

Rene stared at Maedoc. The big man raised his left hand, his right clutching the rail. “Don’t . . .”

“I will not suffer traitors in my house! Do it!” Brennan barked.

Rene stabbed Maedoc in the stomach. Blood spurted, drenching the dagger’s handle.

The soldier cried out.

Rene dropped the dagger and stumbled away. Brennan picked it up and turned to Angelia. “You’re next, my lovely.”

“No.” She backed way. “No.”

“Yes.” Brennan’s voice vibrated with fury. “I’ll help you.”

He grabbed her hand with his bloody fingers, slapped the dagger into it, and locked her fingers around it with his hand, moving behind her, pushing her toward Maedoc.

“No,” she moaned.

Bile rose in Richard’s throat. Finally, the mask had ripped open. Brennan was flying his true colors. To kill a man in a fair fight was one thing, but this—this was a sickening, perverse butchery.

“Come on,” Brennan said in her ear, holding her from behind in a half embrace. “For once, you’ll be the one who gets to stick it in. It’s not hard.”

Brennan forced her forward, raised her hand with his, and stabbed Maedoc in the chest. Blood gushed. Maedoc groaned.

Angelia whimpered.

“Oh no, there is a little bit of blood,” Brennan said. “But you can handle it, can’t you? You think all that money that poured into your accounts isn’t bloody? You think those shiny stones in your ears aren’t soaked in it?”

She tore away from him.

Brennan turned to Richard and held out the dagger. “Casside. Join us, my friend.”

Richard strode forward, took the dagger, and thrust, between the ribs and up, piercing the heart. Maedoc gasped and sagged to the stone. The light went out of his eyes. The torture was over.

Brennan stared at the prone body. “Look, the three of you. Look very well. You all did this with me. Now we’re bound by blood.”

Angelia hid her face in her hands and wept.

“Take his legs.”

Richard picked up Maedoc’s legs. Brennan slid his hands under Maedoc’s arms. They heaved and threw the body over the balcony into the river below. Brennan picked up the dagger, wiped it on a handkerchief, and hurled it into the water. The blade caught the sunlight, sparking as it flew, and vanished far below.

Rene hugged Angelia and drew her toward the lift. Richard followed them. Brennan remained at the rail, his back to them, his arms crossed.

“He is crazy,” Angelia sobbed in the lift. “He’s gone crazy.”

“It will be all right,” Rene told her.

It wouldn’t be all right. The house of cards Brennan had built was tumbling down, and Richard was waiting for the right moment to set it on fire. And as the lift slid down, he thought of a perfect way to do just that.

Five minutes later, Richard walked into his quarters. “George! I know you’re here.”

A mouse scuttled out from under a bookshelf.

“Find my brother,” Richard said. “We have things to arrange.”

GEORGE stood in the shadows, leaning on the column, and watched the dining hall fill with people. The ridiculously pretentious book he’d read on Pierre de Rivière claimed that the Grand Dining Hall was a room of “almost painful elegance.” It wasn’t. It was a room of opulent old wealth.

The pale walls rose fifty feet high, reaching a glass ceiling so clear, it was invisible except for the three enormous chandeliers suspended from it. Each twelve-foot-wide chandelier was woven of hair-thin metal-and-glass strands in a perfect imitation of a cloud backlit by sunlight. Thousands of crystals suspended by thin wires cascaded from the chandelier, like rainbow-hued raindrops. The wires were invisible from the floor, and looking up gave one an illusion of standing under a spring shower.

The floor was seamless cream marble shot through with veins of silver and gold. Beautiful ornate vines cast out of bronze climbed the walls, bearing crystal- and gemstone-studded flowers. The same vine pattern decorated the chairs and the tables, shrouded in silk cloth. The book claimed that no two chairs in the dining hall were alike. Looking at the detail of the tiny leaves and buds, George believed it. The plates were silver, and the silverware had a gold tint. The room itself was enormous, and a full floor-to-ceiling mirror to his right reflected the space, making it appear even larger.

This space wasn’t just old, it was timeless. It would never go out of style by virtue of the wealth concentrated within it. It was a room built by old rich men and women to entertain other rich men and women, none of whom had ever tasted poverty. Just one of those flowers or plates would feed an Edge family for a week. The amount of food they would throw away after the bluebloods were done picking at their plates could sustain a small Edge town for a day.

He had known crushing poverty. He remembered it keenly, and this display of lavish luxury made him nauseous.

Torn shreds of conversation floated about.

“. . . found the body . . .”

“. . . water. Stabbed a dozen times . . .”

“Gods, how horrible . . .”

“. . . the wedding might be postponed . . .”

He caught sight of Charlotte and Sophie. Sophie was walking their dog on a beautiful leash with silver metalwork. The leash looked like it should belong to a fluffy ten-pound puppy with delicate paws and manicured claws. Seeing a large, muscular dog on its end was disconcerting.

Charlotte and Sophie took their seats next to a blond blueblood. He turned, displaying a familiar profile. Spider. Also known as the Count of Belidor. Sophie murmured something. He leaned over with an almost paternal expression on his face and said something. She nodded.

It must’ve hurt her to sit close to him. George had tried to talk to her about it last night, as much of a conversation as one could manage when one communicated by means of a dead squirrel and voice projection. She said it was so painful, it was almost sweet. He thought about it for a while, but he still couldn’t figure out what she’d meant.

He saw Jack drift in through the doors. He moved quietly, sliding between groups of people, and nobody paid him any mind, as if he were invisible. A moment later he stopped next to him. “Hey, Ugly.”

“Hey, Stupid.”

“Can you smell it on me?”

George gave him a look. “No.”

They had spent the last three hours in the room behind the mirror. It was a narrow space used mostly by staff and currently empty. The two of them and Kaldar had pulled apart the thin wooden panels until the back of the mirror was exposed, stripped the protective paint layer, then sprayed a silver solvent on the back of the mirror, turning the reflective surface into simple glass.

Kaldar had raided the Mirror’s stash of gadgets, and they attached four barrier generators on the back of the now-transparent glass, stretching a spell across its back surface. As long as the room remained undisturbed, nobody would be able to tell that the mirror had been tampered with. Immediately after they finished the job, Jack began obsessing that he had a chemical smell. Normally, George tolerated his brother’s quirks, but at the moment they had bigger things to worry about.

“Do you think it will work?” Jack asked.

“If this doesn’t work, I’ll kill him myself.”

George didn’t need to specify—“him” meant Brennan. Brennan was the root of the evil that had damaged their lives. Too many people had suffered, too many had died. He couldn’t be allowed to exist.

“Agreed,” Jack said. “We’ll do it together.”

Across the hall, Richard stepped inside. He saw Rene and Angelia standing together in the corner and walked in the opposite direction, taking position against a column, much like George’s.

The Grand Thane walked into the lobby, the Marchesa on his arm. The conversation died. The older man led his bride-to-be to the center of the room, to their table, and sat. Brennan followed him among the other bluebloods, taking the seat at a table nearby. His face wore a solemn expression.

Jack bared his teeth, quick like a knife cut, and hid them again.

“Come on.” George pushed away from the column, and they walked to their seats at their assigned table next to the Duchess of the Southern Provinces.

“Boys,” she greeted them with a smile.

“My lady.” They both bowed.

“Please sit down.”

They sat.

“How is it going?” Lady Olivia asked quietly.

“Well so far,” George answered. The most difficult thing about Brennan was that he made an unpredictable opponent. The murder of Maedoc had proven that. What they were about to do was calculated to unbalance him, make him spin out of his orbit, and once he did, he would become a human wrecking ball, destroying everything in his path.

A tall man in the uniform of the Castle Guard strode into the room and onto the raised platform at the front. “My lords and ladies, may I have a moment of your time.”

Quiet fell onto the gathering.

“My name is Celire Lakita. I’m in charge of the security for the Pierre de Rivière. This morning, a murder occurred on these premises.”

Nobody gasped. Everybody had already heard the news.

“I want to assure you that your safety isn’t in question.” Celire paused. “We know that the murder took place on the Upper Northern Balcony. We know that four assailants were involved. We know why it occurred. We know who is responsible.”

George focused on Brennan. The big man sat absolutely still, his face a cold mask.

“I will now speak to the killers directly.” Celire looked at the gathering. “We know who you are. Rest assured that this matter will be resolved by the day’s end. Attempting to escape is futile—you will note increased security presence in the hallways. You have until this evening to make things easier on yourself and retain some small measure of dignity. If you don’t cooperate, your fellow conspirators will. The measure of my mercy is small and dwindling by the minute. To the rest of you, please enjoy your meal.”

He stepped down.

The hall buzzed with a dozen simultaneously started conversations. It was a carefully crafted speech. Kaldar and Richard had spent forty-five minutes writing it. Once Kaldar flashed his Mirror credentials and dangled the possible arrest of Maedoc’s murderers in front of Celire, the head of castle security proved more than willing to play his part in laying the trap. Now, Brennan had to react.

Do it, George willed silently, staring at Brennan’s back. Do it. You know you want to talk to them.

Brennan flicked open a pen.

“Pen,” Jack murmured.

“I see it.”

Brennan wrote something on a piece of paper and flagged down a waiter. The waiter weaved his way to the table where Rene and Angelia sat together. The waiter dropped off the note. Rene looked at it. His face turned pale. He passed the note to Angelia.

Five minutes later, he sent one of his own. The second note arrived at Richard’s table. He folded his napkin, rose, and walked out.

Three minutes later Angelia rose. Rene carefully escorted her to the door. Brennan was the last to leave.

He had to take them to the side room. It was the only private room quickly accessible from the Grand Dining Hall. Security blocked the hallway on the left, and the hallway on the right opened into staff areas and kitchens filled with people.

The mirror shivered. Someone had opened the side room’s door, and the draft had disturbed the delicate web of the spell.

“Yes,” Jack hissed.

The spell tore like a film of oil being swept from the water’s surface. The mirror vanished, revealing a perfectly transparent sheet of glass and Brennan behind it. Rage distorted his face. Angelia flattened herself against the wall. Rene bristled. Richard remained impassive, like a dark shadow. He was looking straight at the dining room. No alarm registered on his face. The spell must’ve worked as intended—from inside the side room, the glass still appeared to be mirrored.

“They know nothing,” Brennan snarled, his voice slightly muffled but clearly recognizable as it issued from the grates hidden among the ornaments on the wall. “They have nothing, they know nothing, they are lying.”

The Grand Thane raised his hand. The noise in the dining hall died, as if cut off by a sword.

“Wake up!” Rene snapped. “They know. We should deal.”

Brennan hammered a punch into Rene’s jaw. The blond man staggered back.

“Now you listen to me, all of you.” Brennan barked. “There will be no deals. Don’t speak to anyone, don’t say anything, don’t even break wind without clearing it with me first. If you do, I will crush you. Don’t think for a second that you will get out of this unscathed, while I’ll go down. I’m a royal peer of the realm. You’re nothing. You’re trash.”

He spun to Angelia. “You’re a whore who can’t keep her legs together. You”—he turned to Rene—“are a fop and a weakling.” He faced Richard. “You’re a greedy coward. I can replace every one of you, and there will be a dozen fighting to take your places. I made you what you are. I took the fractured bandits and scum and molded them into a military force. Not a single slave was sold on this coast in the last five years without my getting a cut. I command three hundred slavers. I own the seaboard. I am the real power.”

The Grand Thane rose. His eyes bulged. His face turned purple with rage. George felt an overpowering urge to be very quiet and small.

“You want to open your mouths? Try it. You won’t live to see the sunset. Do you hear me?”

The Grand Thane started toward the glass.

Brennan spun, his eyes deranged. “You will be lucky if I kill you. I may just strip you of everything you are. I’ll have you sold to the vilest degenerate I can find. You’ll end your days drowning in the basest of perversities, kept on a chain for his amusement—”

The Grand Thane grabbed the nearest chair, almost as an afterthought, and smashed it into the glass. Shards rained down, scattering across the floor. Suddenly, the two rooms became one. Brennan saw everyone in the dining hall looking at him and froze.

“You vain, pathetic brat,” the Grand Thane roared.

Brennan reached for his sword. “Don’t put your hands on me, old man!”

“These hands will end you, boy!”

Rene put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

A hair-thin streak of pure white flash pulsed from the left, and hit Rene’s hand. Blood poured. Rene screamed.

At the far table, Lorameh stood calmly, white lightning dancing on his fingers. There was something familiar about his face. The recognition hit George like a punch. “Erwin!”

The man had been his supervisor for two years. How the hell did he not recognize him? He wasn’t even wearing much of a disguise.

“Of course, it’s Erwin,” Jack said. “He smells the same. Did you just now figure it out?”

Magic sparked in Brennan’s eyes. A shield of white cloaked him.

The Grand Thane planted his feet.

Richard backed out of the room into the hallway.

White streaks of lightning clutched at the Grand Thane’s hair. An enormous magical pressure built around him, winding about the old man like a cocoon streaked with radiant veins of power. Shit.

People at the front tables scrambled away.

“We have to go!” Jack jumped up.

“No need,” Lady Olivia said.

A whip of white lightning shot from Brennan at the Grand Thane’s chest and bounced off. He’d actually tried to kill his own grandfather.

“I began you,” the Grand Thane thundered. “I will end you, whelp!”

He opened his arms, his palms up. A brilliant ball of coiled magic spun between them.

“Stay close to me, children,” Lady Olivia said.

Kaldar popped up between the tables and dashed over to them.

A wall of white sheathed Brennan.

The pressurized cocoon of magic tore. A torrent of power ripped out of the Grand Thane. The flash explosion smashed into Brennan.

Kaldar landed between Jack and George. George braced for the blast wave. His flash shield was strong, but he wasn’t sure it would hold.

A sphere of white unfolded from Lady Olivia, encasing the table. Around them, tables flew back, as if slapped by a giant’s hand. The duchess sipped from her cup.

The sphere melted.

The walls of the side room had disappeared. A colossal hole gaped in the side of the castle. Angelia lay on the floor. Rene was crouched against a sidewall. Brennan stood, unharmed. He’d shielded himself and Rene, who’d hidden directly behind him.

Brennan unsheathed his blade. “Is that it, old man? That’s all?”

No more magic. It must’ve taken all of Brennan’s power to shield himself.

The Grand Thane had no sword.

Brennan struck, a fast overhand blow. His sword gleamed in the sun and clanged against Richard’s blade. It wasn’t Casside’s rapier but Richard’s own sword.

Richard’s jacket was gone. He wore a loose white shirt. Tiny red dots marked Richard’s face and hands. Blood, George realized. Richard’s flash screen was weak. He had managed to block enough of the Grand Thane’s explosion to survive the blast, but it had cost him, and now he was bleeding from every pore. They called it flash punch, a sure sign that his magic was expended—and so was Brennan’s. Without their magic, if they fought now, it would be down to sword against sword.

Brennan’s eyes bulged. “Casside, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m not Casside.” Richard glanced at the Grand Thane, a question obvious on his face. The old noble pondered him for a moment.

Let him do this, George willed. He needs this.

“You have my permission,” the Grand Thane rumbled.

Richard stepped between the old man and Brennan.

To the left, Charlotte jumped to her feet and stood utterly still.

Brennan stepped back, raising his sword. It was a plain, functional sword of a simple but brutal design that had served Brennans for centuries, carving their path to the throne. It had a thirty-five-and-a-half-inch double-edged blade, sharp and polished to a satin smoothness; a ten-inch hilt with a seven-and-a-half-inch grip, wrapped in plain leather cord that allowed Brennan to wield the sword one- or two-handed; a round pommel and cross-guard. George had held a sword like that before, made by the same smith—Declan had it in his armory. The balance of the blade was at five and a half inches, and it weighed about two and a half pounds, a combination that made the sword nimble despite its size. Holding it in his hand had made him feel indestructible.

Richard’s sword was single-edged and curved ever so slightly. It was razor-sharp, weighed only a pound, with a twenty-five-and-a-half-inch blade, and a four-inch grip. Brennan’s sword was ten inches longer, a pound heavier, but also slower, a powerful butcher blade to Richard’s sleek scalpel.

Brennan slashed to the right, aiming for Richard’s right side, just below the ribs. Richard moved to parry, but instead of following through, Brennan reversed the strike and lashed at Richard’s left. Richard brought his sword across, point down, meeting Brennan’s blade just in time. Brennan was testing for speed, George realized.

“If you’re not Casside, then who are you?”

“You call me Hunter.”

Brennan struck again, the sword dancing in his hand. Right slash, left slash, right slash, left. The swords rang from each other. Richard moved back under the onslaught, his movements short, economical. Brennan drove him across the room. Blades flashed, Richard moved a touch too slow, and the point of Brennan’s sword grazed his shoulder. Blood swelled across the white sleeve. Damn it.

“No!” Jack growled.

“It’s just a paper cut. He’s fine.” First blood was to Brennan. Not a good sign. George’s pulse rose. Richard couldn’t lose. He simply couldn’t lose this fight.

The two men circled each other like two predators stalking. Richard, a lean wolf, and Brennan, a pampered tiger.

“Why?” Brennan asked.

“You profit from the sale of human beings.”

“A true believer, then.” Brennan bared his teeth. “And who are you to judge me?”

“Just a man,” Richard said.

Brennan grasped the sword in both hands and struck, bringing it in a circular motion across Richard’s chest. Richard moved back, and the sword whistled past his shirt. Brennan reversed the swing and struck diagonally down. Richard parried, deflecting the blow with the flat of his blade. Steel rang. Richard staggered back. Brennan was bigger and at least thirty pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle. George knew Richard had ungodly stamina, but the flash punch had clearly taken its toll.

Brennan swung again, a high, horizontal cut. Richard parried in a clamor of steel. They crossed swords again and again, blocking with the flats of their blades. Brennan grunted and hammered at Richard, blow after blow, sinking his enormous strength into it. Richard was backing away, staggered by the hits. George clenched his fists. Get out of there. He’s going to pin you against the wall. Get out.

“He’s just beating on him,” Jack squeezed through his teeth. “He isn’t using any technique at all.”

“He decided Richard was too damaged to survive a long fight. He wants to end it fast.”

Brennan was familiar with all the techniques of proper swordplay—and knew all the tricks as well. Members of his family received expert instruction in the martial arts from early childhood. George hadn’t been allowed to start practicing until he was nine. At his age, Brennan had already been learning swordplay for six years. He was banking on his raw power now. This wasn’t a duel; this was a fight to the death, fast and brutal. Only one would walk away, and Richard looked desperate.

Brennan cut Richard’s right shoulder. Another graze. Damn it. George hid a growl. He wanted to run out there on the floor and finish this.

Jack tensed next to him, gathering himself like a cat before a pounce.

“Don’t you dare,” the duchess said. Hearing her voice was like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on him. George recoiled.

“This isn’t your fight. You must stay out of it.”

Brennan slammed his shoulder into Richard, shoving him back. Richard crashed into the wall.

Get out, get out, get out . . .

Brennan thrust. Richard knocked his blade aside and spun left, breaking free.

Brennan pulled a dagger from the sheath on his belt. The brute assault had failed. He was going for the smarter plan now. Brennan cut from the right. Richard deflected the blade, and Brennan slashed his hand with the dagger, flinging blood into the air.

Argh!

Richard spun and thrust. Brennan knocked the blade aside and carved at the inside of Richard’s forearm. The sword hand was vital. One cut in the right place, and Richard would lose mobility, strength, or his sword altogether. Brennan was taking him apart piece by piece. Richard looked like he was on his last breath. He was slowing down. His shirt was crimson with blood.

Another cut. Damn it all to hell.

Brennan sensed weakness, like a shark senses blood in the water. He slashed in a wide, horizontal cut, left to right. Richard leaned back with sudden speed. The sword sliced empty air. Richard clamped his left hand on Brennan’s sword wrist. Brennan lunged with the dagger, striving to drive it into Richard’s throat. Richard ducked under the blow and rammed the pommel of his sword under Brennan’s chin. Blood spilled from Brennan’s mouth. He jerked back, and Richard sliced across the inside of his left biceps. Brennan dropped the dagger and stumbled back. “Who are you?” he gasped.

“I’m an Edger, a nobody. You preyed on my people, so I took it all away from you. I killed your crews, I destroyed your island, I misled you into thinking Maedoc was a traitor. The pieces of your kingdom are crashing down around you because I made it happen.”

Brennan growled, spitting blood. “I’ll kill you, you piece of Edge shit.”

“You’ll never rule,” Richard snarled back. “You’re unfit.”

Brennan lunged into a furious melee. His sword shone, slicing in wide arcs: left, right, left. Richard deflected. Brennan head-butted him. Richard scoured Brennan’s side. They clashed again, bloodied, focused only on each other. The ringing of steel on steel was like a heartbeat.

Brennan made another slash at Richard’s neck. All his blows were above the chest, George realized. Enemy fixation. He had heard about it but had never seen it. In this moment, Brennan hated Richard so much that he was unable to look away from his face. All his cuts were designed to chop Richard’s head off.

Richard spun out of the way and hammered a kick into Brennan’s side. The bigger man took a step back. The point of his sword drooped. Tired! He was tired. The blade was slow to come up.

Brennan exhaled, blood bubbling on his lips, and charged. Richard let him come and slashed at Brennan’s stomach in a lightning cut.

Brennan stumbled, clamping his arm to his stomach, trying to hold his guts inside. Richard paced back and forth, stalking him like a lean, hungry wolf hounding a lame bear. The bigger man tried to straighten. Richard dropped down, almost to his knees, and sliced across Brennan’s legs, left-right, his sword blurring.

Brennan staggered. The fabric of his pants split, showing crisscrossing cuts. Blood swelled. He growled and sank to his knees. Richard hammered a knee to his face. Brennan toppled over. Richard flicked the blood off his sword with a sharp jerk and looked at Charlotte.

She still stood at the table, so pale, she looked bloodless. Slowly, Richard raised his sword in a kind of salute.

The Grand Thane boomed. “Someone, take out this garbage.”

Celire appeared, backed by half a dozen guards. They swarmed Brennan. Three swords pointed at Richard.

“Not him,” the Great Thane said. “He can go.”

Richard bowed his head. The guards parted, and he strode toward them.

“A disgrace.” Erwin said. George turned. The spy was standing at their table. He looked a lot less like Lorameh and very much like Erwin. Some sort of magic had to be at work here. He would have to get to the bottom of it.

“Erwin?” Kaldar peered at him. “You’re Lorameh?”

“Yes, I am. What part of back off was unclear to you? I have sat on Brennan for ten months, building my case so I can bring him in quietly, without scandal and embarrassment to the realm.” Erwin raised his arm, indicating the wrecked dining hall. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”

Richard reached them. “Where is Charlotte?”

George glanced at Charlotte’s table. It was empty. Charlotte was gone. So was Sophie—and so was Spider.

“She was just here,” he said.

“Jack!” Richard barked.

“I’m on it.” Jack dashed through the dining hall, crouched at the table, inhaled and pointed to the doorway. “Right hallway.”

Richard sprinted across the hall.

“MY lord!” Sophie called out.

Spider stopped and turned. He was midway through the gardens, and as he spun on his foot to face her, the gorgeous flowerbeds framed him. He seemed an elegant painting, drenched in sunlight. She let the dog off the leash.

“What are you doing here, Sophie?”

“I was scared when the screaming started,” she said. “I ran out and saw you walking away.”

He raised his hand, inviting her to walk next to him. She caught up, and, together, they strolled down the winding path. The dog ran sideways to investigate some flowers.

“I see you brought your dog. Have you finally settled on a name?”

“Yes. I think we should call him Callis.”

“After the Grand Thane?” Spider smiled.

“They have the same type of rough dignity. Where are you going?”

The stiff blade of her short sword, the only weapon that could be hidden in her dress, was warm against her thigh. Roses bloomed on both sides of the path, pink, dark red, and cream, their velvet petals sending a refined perfume into the air.

“I came here to disrupt this wedding,” he said.

“But why? Don’t you like the Marchesa?”

“I do. I’m very fond of her, in fact. She is a beautiful example of the best noble blood has to offer. But I’m a patriot, my dear. And sometimes the needs of my country conflict with my personal likes.”

“I understand,” she said. “Duty.” He wasn’t a monster by choice, oh no. He was a patriot. The only difference between a common psychotic sadistic murderer and Spider was he had Louisiana’s mandate to be one.

“Yes.” Spider nodded. “The Marchesa has great land holdings. It wasn’t in our best interests to let those lands fall under Adrianglian influence. I was planning something quite spectacular. But a true professional knows when he is beaten. They have created such a glorious chaos on their own, I can’t possibly contribute anything else to it. It’s time for me to walk off the stage.”

He stopped. They stood in the very center of the garden, where the path formed a ring.

“I very much enjoyed your company. You’re very intelligent,” Spider said. “You have the ability to reason and keep an open mind. If you develop ambition, it will carry you far. I wish you the best of luck, my dear. I will keep an eye on you if I can. I’m interested to see how far you will go.”

“How does one develop ambition?”

He tilted his head. “Have you ever wanted something? Something you know you can’t have? Something that is your heart’s desire?”

“Of course.”

“Convince yourself that you should have it. Realize that it is yours by the right of your might or intelligence or simple desire. Reach for it and take it. Do you understand?”

Oh, she understood. She understood quite well.

“Farewell.” He turned away. He was about to walk out of the garden. She might never get another opportunity like this.

“Lord Sebastian?”

“Yes?”

She sank her hand into the hidden fold of her skirt. “Would you like to know what my heart’s desire is?”

Spider turned to her, a light smile on his lips. “Very well. What is it, sweetheart?”

She thrust her knife into his chest, stretching the flash across the blade in a tiny fraction of a second.

Spider gasped.

She clamped him to her and tore the blade through his innards, mincing soft organ tissue. Blood poured from Spider’s lips, his face stunned with disbelief.

“It’s to watch you die, you piece of shit,” she said. “You fused my mother.”

He lunged forward, impaling himself deeper on the blade. His hand clamped her throat, squeezing it in a steel grasp. Her air vanished. Don’t panic. Whatever you do, don’t panic.

“Sophie Mar, I take it.” His voice was a ragged, inhuman growl. His eyes bored into her. The world was fading into darkness. “Well played, my little one. Well played.”

She freed the sword with a sharp tug. The air in her lungs boiled.

“You have no idea how much I loathe your family.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a black blur dart across the grass. Callis rammed Spider and clamped his teeth on his right forearm, adding his hundred pounds to Sophie’s weight. Spider groaned. His fingers opened, releasing her throat. She fell and landed into a crouch, gasping for air. She needed to move, but her body refused to do anything but breathe, wasting precious seconds.

Callis snarled, pulling at Spider, trying to yank him off his feet. With his left hand, Spider jerked a blade from the sheath at his waist and bashed the dog over the head. Callis growled. Spider sank his blade into the dark fur of Callis’s back, and it came out crimson.

No! You don’t get to kill my dog! Her legs finally obeyed. She sprang up, sword raised, and slashed across his ribs. Why in the world wasn’t he dead? What if he couldn’t die?

He kicked Callis aside. The dog dropped to the ground with a vicious snarl and tried to lunge.

“No! Mine,” she told him.

Spider laughed. “Let’s see what you’re capable off.” He struck. He was fast, so fast; he might have been almost as fast as Richard.

She parried and slashed at his shoulder, cutting a gash in his doublet. Blood swelled. Not deep enough. Her sword was too short. He sliced at her in a vicious, horizontal cut. She had no way to dodge to the side, so she bent back. Pain seared her just under the collarbone. The tip of his blade had cut across the exposed top of her chest. Blood poured onto her gown. As he finished the strike, she grasped his wrist with her left hand and sliced across his chest. The flash-sharpened blade cut through his ribs.

Spider snarled. He was still standing.

“Not good enough, Sophie Mar.”

“Good enough for you. You don’t get to take anything else from me.”

He laughed.

“Die.” She cut him again. “Die, die, die!”

He stumbled back and kept laughing.

She slashed at him again and again, becoming a whirlwind, her blade an extension of her, bound to her by her magic. She cut him again and again, oblivious to the wounds she took.

Finally, he fell to his knees.

She stopped. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. Callis whined at her feet.

“Not bad,” Spider said, his mouth dripping blood. “Look behind me. What will you do now, my dear?”

Sophie raised her head.

Monsters were climbing over the brick wall into the garden.

CHARLOTTE ran down the stairs. She’d lost track of things for a moment, watching Richard win, and when she turned around, both Sophie and Spider were gone.

The hallway ended in an arched entrance, flooded with sunlight. She dashed through it. A large garden spread before her. In the middle of it, Sophie stood in a gown scarlet with blood, holding a small sword. The big dog stood shivering next to her. Sophie’s gaze was fixed on the far wall. Charlotte looked up.

People were climbing over the wall, dropping into the flowers one by one. Some were human, some were a grotesque collection of animal parts grafted onto human bodies. Their magic splashed her like a wave of sewage. The Hand. They must be Spider’s people. Sophie stood alone against two dozen trained killers, and she was holding an oversized knife.

Charlotte ran. The time slowed to a crawl. She saw everything with crystalline clarity—the monsters in the flowers; Sophie’s pale face as she turned to glance at her; the desperation of knowing she was outmatched in the child’s eyes . . .

The magic tore out of Charlotte, the dark currents streaming like black dragons to find their victims. They stung the first agent, biting his muscular body. He snarled, an inhuman sound, and kept coming. The regeneration, Charlotte realized. His enhanced body was healing the damage she inflicted with her diseases as fast as she could hurt him. She would have to give it more power.

She snapped some of her inner chains. The magic shot out of her, its black streams luminescent with red sparks, carrying death. The magic sped toward the Hand’s agent, brushing against the wolfripper in passing. The dog howled, spun, and fled past her to the safety of the castle. The darkness stung the agent again. He went down on his knees. A bloody red lesion split open the skin on his back. Charlotte struggled to keep the wound open, feeling his body fighting her. He healed with unnatural speed. How was this possible?

Sophie dashed through the garden to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It just happened. Spider was walking away . . .”

Charlotte thrust herself between the child and the monsters. “Stay near me.”

She gave the magic more of herself and pushed. Her dark current snapped and struck, biting deep into the approaching fighters. They still kept coming. There had to be fifty of them in the gardens. They were circling them, closing in a ring. In moments, the two of them would be surrounded.

This was a death stand. If Charlotte didn’t start feeding on them to fuel her own magic, the Hand would rip her and Sophie apart. But even if she then managed to kill them all, it would destroy who she was and she’d take Sophie’s life without even thinking about it.

Sophie held her knife, her face bloodless and terrified.

She had to save Sophie. Her years of making quick decisions in a crisis paid off. Fear vanished. Her head was suddenly clear. There was only one way out, Charlotte realized. It was impossible for both of them to get out of this alive, but if she bought Sophie enough time to escape . . . It was just possible the child could survive. It was their only chance.

You will turn into the plaguebringer, a tiny voice warned her.

True—once she went down this road, nothing would prevent that—but the Hand were too many, and they healed too fast. They would overwhelm her before she could move on to the castle and cause damage to innocent people. It was suicide, but it was the best possible option.

The first agent Charlotte had downed, rose, shaking off his injuries like they were mere scratches. Charlotte whipped her magic, and the dark currents clenched the revolting hybrid of human and beast. An exhilarating influx of life force flooded into her. She siphoned off his life and turned it into power.

The dark serpents of her magic smashed into the second agent, draining her dry and dumping her desiccated corpse into the flowers. They stung another and another, stealing more life, feeding it back into her.

Charlotte squeezed Sophie’s shoulder. “Run!”

“I won’t leave you!”

“If you stay, I’ll kill you. I’ll clear the way. Run, sweetheart. Keep Richard away from me. Run!”

Sophie ran. She flew along the path back to the castle like she had wings.

Charlotte opened the floodgates. Her power surged forward, biting deep into the monsters in Sophie’s path. She stole their life force and vomited it back as an all-devouring plague. The Hand’s agents shuddered and fell.

Sophie dashed through the gap between the bodies.

Her magic reaped its grisly harvest. The enhanced agents fought to reach her and fell, cut down, and she fed on their lives, reveling in their taste.

Sophie shot up the stairs and through the arched doors.

Enough. She could pull it back now. Charlotte strained, reeling the magic back. The darkness buckled inside her, fighting to stay unleashed. So strong, so overpowering. Her hold on her power slipped a little, then a little more. It was if she were caught in the current of a violent river that pushed her back, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t force her way against the flow.

She had become an abomination. The magic streamed out of her like a black storm, and she was powerless to stop it. As if in a dream, bodies were falling around her, slowly and softly, like wilted flowers. The dark river inside her rose, the furious current creeping higher and higher.

Oh, Richard . . . It had all gone wrong. It had gone so, so wrong. She was crying, the tears rolling down her cheeks. I’m so sorry, love. I’m so, so sorry. You were all I wanted. You were all I hoped for. I’m sorry.

She shouldn’t have pushed him away last night. She should’ve invited him in, to love and be loved one last time.

The current inside her swelled, and she drowned.

RICHARD ran through the hallways, the walls a smudged blur. Ahead, Sophie dashed through the arched entrance, her face wet with tears.

“She’s gone!”

“What?”

“Charlotte’s gone, she’s gone!”

He pulled away from her, but she grabbed onto his clothes, dragging him away from the arch. “No, Richard, no! No, you’ll die. No! Don’t go! She said for you not to go!”

He hugged her to him, kissed her hair, and pushed free.

“Richard,” she screamed.

He burst into the sunlight.

Charlotte stood in the middle of the garden. Her magic raged, striking down the Hand’s agents, the black streams boiling, twisting, like a terrifying storm. The Hand’s freaks tried to run, but the magic bit them again and again. Some crawled, other lay unmoving, little more than desiccated husks, and some were decomposing.

Charlotte turned, and he saw her eyes. They were solid black.

The flowers by her feet withered. The blight ran from her, spreading through the garden. Roses died, rotting at the root. The last of the Hand’s monsters swayed and fell.

She had become what she always feared. She had turned into a living death.

He had to get to her. He had to reach her.

The flowers by the stone steps on which he stood withered. He stepped on to their dried corpses and walked across the garden.

The darkness streamed to him. It cloaked him. He felt its deadly cold sting.

“I love you, Charlotte.”

Ten feet separated him from her.

His body buckled. It felt like he was being turned inside out.

Eight feet. The bones of his legs melted into agony.

“I love you. Don’t leave me.”

Three steps.

His heart was beating too fast, each contraction slicing him as if someone were stabbing shards of glass straight into his aorta.

He dropped his sword—his fingers couldn’t hold it—and closed his arms around her. “My love, my light . . . Don’t leave me.”

She stood submerged within the black current of the magic river. The red pockets of magical essence washed over her one by one, glowing weakly, and she absorbed them in a cascade of euphoria.

No thoughts. No worries. Just freedom and bliss.

Another wash of red splashed against her. She tasted it and recoiled. It tasted too familiar. She hadn’t taken it. It was freely given, but everything in her rebelled against consuming it. How could this be?

She forced herself to sample the essence, letting it permeate her. It streamed along her, coursing through her, so unbelievably delicious. Wrong. It was wrong. Her magic shrank from it.

She strained, trying to identify it. There had to be a reason.

Richard!

He was Richard.

She heard a voice from a great distance. It cloaked her, separating her for a brief second from the darkness.

My love, my light . . . Don’t leave me.

She was killing him. She was draining his life, drop by precious drop.

No! No, she didn’t want it. Take it back! Take it all back!

She tried to reverse the flow and send life back into him, but the current gripped her, smothering her, trying to banish reason. She felt herself drowning and fought against it with everything she had.

No! I am the Healer. You’re part of me. You are part of me. You will obey me.

Pain flooded her, the current hammering against her body. Hundreds of pinpoint needles pierced her, burning her. The agony overwhelmed her, and she melted into blinding pain.

If she gave up now, Richard would die.

Charlotte ripped through the pain. A golden glow coated her. The current of the dark river shrank from it.

You will obey.

The pain was excruciating. She screamed, although she had no voice. The glow shot from her, igniting the river into a radiant gold. Her magic boiled.

The darkness fell apart. She saw Richard’s prone body in the dead grass and dropped to her knees next to him.

Don’t die. Please, don’t die.

She pushed, but no magic came. There was nothing left of it, neither light nor darkness.

Richard was barely breathing.

She strained, trying to pull on that roiling gold. The magic buckled inside her, threatening to rip her apart, but would not obey. Pain exploded inside her in excruciating bursts of agony. Charlotte tasted blood in her mouth.

Tiny specks of blood formed on her skin, coming out of her pores. Finally her voice obeyed, and she screamed, the pain streaming out of her. It felt like she was dying. She almost wanted to die just to end the agony, but she had to save him.

Obey me. Work. You will work.

Something broke inside her.

Her magic burst out of her, the gold so potent, it lifted him above the ground. Her power bound them into one. Everything she had taken, every life she had stolen, all of it went into Richard. She drenched him in the healing gold, again and again, hoping against hope that he would live.

Come back to me. Come back to me, love.

It felt like her body was melting. She had to hold on. She had to heal him.

“Come back to me. I love you so much.”

He opened his eyes.

She didn’t believe it. It was a trick.

He raised his hand. His fingers touched her lips. “I love you, too.” He pushed from the ground and sat up.

She collapsed on his chest and surrendered to the pain.

RICHARD sat by the heavy wooden doors. Behind them, the healers of Ganer College worked on Charlotte. He’d thought she had fallen asleep from exhaustion. It took him five precious hours to realize she couldn’t wake up. He’d loaded her into a phaeton and drove at a breakneck speed to Ganer College. He walked through the gates, carrying her, and people came and took her away from him. He followed them through the labyrinth of hallways and stairs to this corridor and this room, where they shut the doors in his face, and he’d been sitting here for hours, not knowing whether she would live or die. A man had brought him a platter of food at some point, but he felt no need to eat. He got up a few times to relieve himself in the bathroom two doors down.

He was so monumentally angry.

The two of them had done so much, they had sacrificed so much, and after all of that, now she would die. He wanted to rage and punch the walls at the unfairness of it, but instead he had to sit still. He tried picturing going home without her and couldn’t.

If she died . . . What was the point?

“There is often no point. Seeking some sort of justification in the flow of life is useless,” a woman said.

He looked up. An elegant, older woman stood before him, tall and very thin, with dark hair and intense penetrating gaze.

“Will she live?”

“Yes. She’s resting now.”

Relief flooded him.

“My name is Lady Augustine al Ran. Walk with me, Richard. There are some things we must discuss.”

He rose and followed her down the hallway. “Are you reading my mind?”

“No, I’m reading your emotions. You’re drowning in bitterness. I’m a sensate, and over the years, I’ve become very good at connecting the dots.”

They reached another set of doors. He held them open for her. She strode through. He went after her and found himself in a long, stone breezeway about fifty feet off the ground. A roof sheltered it from the elements, but the large, arched windows had no glass, and the breeze blew through them. The sun was out, its light bright and golden. When he’d brought Charlotte in, night was falling.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“It’s late morning,” she said. “For you it is tomorrow. You’ve spent the last fourteen hours waiting.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Yes.”

His anger was melting into the wind, carrying off his bitterness. He felt . . . calm.

“What are you doing to me?”

“I need you to have a clear head,” she said, stopping at one of the windows. “You have some decisions to make, and I don’t want your emotions to interfere with them. I know about you, Richard. She wrote to me before leaving for the wedding. She told me all about you. She loves you, which explains why she has done the impossible for your sake. I wasn’t there, but her body and her mind bear the scars. Tell me what happened.”

He told her everything. The slavers, Charlotte, the dark magic, Sophie, all of it.

“I had surmised as much,” she said, looking at the gardens far below. “Charlotte was always very strong.”

“Will there be repercussions?”

She raised her narrow eyebrows. “Officially? No. She is too valuable as a healer, and the idea that a feedback loop can be broken would only give fools the pretext to experiment with it. No, there will be no sanctions, but there are consequences. When Charlotte broke the feedback loop to heal you, she did it at a terrible cost. She experienced discordance. It’s a very rare phenomenon, where the magic user becomes so absorbed in channeling her magic that she loses motor skills. Charlotte must relearn basic things, Richard. She must learn again how to walk, how to hold a spoon or a pencil, how to turn the page of a book.”

His heart sank. “But she can learn?”

“Oh yes. There is nothing physically wrong with her body. We’ve repaired the damage and made her as healthy as she could be. But it will take a lot of patience and practice. She will be bedridden for weeks.”

She was alive. She was healthy, and she had survived. That was all that mattered. “When can I take her home?”

Lady Augustine turned to him. “That may not be a good idea. I don’t think you understand. Charlotte will need to be carried to the bathroom. She will need to be bathed. She will need to be spoon-fed and will be bedridden for weeks until she is able to begin rehabilitation, which will likely take months. Do you have any children? You will have to take care of her as if she were a child. Think of what it will do to any romantic feelings you may have for her. You will never be able to see her in the same light again. Walk away, Richard. Leave her here with us. This is what we do. We care for the sick, and we’re very good at it.”

“Did she say she wanted me to take her home?”

“She did.”

“Then I’ll take her home.”

The older woman stared at him. “You must know that I won’t consent to your marriage.”

“I don’t care,” Richard told her. “I don’t care about your family, your title, or your bloodline. I’ll be with her in any way she will have me.”

He turned and marched back the way they had come. He pounded his way through the hallway and walked through the doors. Charlotte was awake. She lay in bed, her hair fanning across the pillows like a golden veil, her silver eyes alert and aware. He knelt by the bed.

“I can’t hold you,” she told him.

He kissed her lips gently. “I don’t care.”

“I care. You don’t have to, if it’s too much . . .”

He heard tears in her voice.

“I won’t leave you,” he told her. “I will never leave you. We’ll do this together. Come home with me. Please.”

He hugged her to him. “Say yes, Charlotte.”

“Yes,” she told him.