Maledicte (46 page)

“And risk the palace?” Janus countered. “Risk the ceilings crushing his son?” He struck like a snake.

Maledicte rolled away from the blow. He backed away from Janus, wishing Ani would hurry with this transformation, would hurry with his obliteration.

A faint thought crossed his mind, shocking him to stillness—Gilly, waiting for him. Gilly. Ani shrieked within his skin, the rooks flew into the ranks of guards, blinding one man, and causing chaos.

“Mal—” Janus said. “Mal—” A warning in his voice, or entreaty. Maledicte didn’t know which it was, only knew that his lover came for him with a sword, that Ani raged within him, and that the small quiet space left in him was weeping for Gilly. Then there was nothing in his mind but the black arrival of Ani, holding him immobile as She sought control of his body, making it over as She wished.

The moonlight reflected off the blade as Janus pulled his arm back and thrust forward. Despair let him break Ani’s grip; Maledicte’s hand flashed out, pressing the blade aside as it moved, blood spattering from his palm as he pushed, trying to shift the sword, trying to shift it away from his tender flesh. He moved it a bare half inch. Not enough.

The sword sank into him as if it had always belonged there, the slick heat of it intimate within his chest, nestled inside.

Janus’s eyes were wild; his mouth slack, as if he hadn’t believed he could do it at all. The blade slid free despite Maledicte clutching at it, holding it to him. Blood sprayed over Janus’s clean shirt, hit his face and mouth. Janus flinched, and closed his eyes. Maledicte, still standing, felt his body going numb and distant. He watched Janus wipe the blade clean with his hand, sheeting his blood from the steel to the stones of the roof. The guards’ faces were stupid with shock, as if they hadn’t believed Maledicte could be killed any more than Maledicte had.

“Ani,” Maledicte breathed. Ani poured Herself into the wound and found it mortal.

She screamed, Her burgeoning power pushed back and redirected, fighting to stay ahead of Maledicte’s death. The stones of the roof birthed ravens, and the guards stumbled, waving their swords blindly in a blizzard of black feathers.

The rooks skied away, shrieking, as the ravens rose. But as Ani’s hold on the world faded, the ravens slowly became stone once more, shattering at the touch of a sword. Maledicte watched it all, sinking back against the edge of the roof, sliding down to lie on the surface.

Janus knelt, pressing his hand to the wound. “Mal—”

“I wouldn’t have—” Maledicte whispered. Blood washed up and brushed his lips. “You didn’t have—Why?” His breath gave out, and he saw tears standing out in Janus’s eyes. They made him angry, but his blood was too thin for the old fire to catch, too thin and spreading out over his shirt, Janus’s hands, the roof tiles.

“Shh,” Janus said, bending forward, pressing him close. It woke pain in the wound and Maledicte moaned in the dark shelter of Janus’s shoulder. “Drink this,” Janus said, a small vial in his hand. “Please. It’ll ease the pain.”

Maledicte let the liquid trickle into his mouth, felt Janus rubbing his throat to make him swallow, and the pain receded into numbness. Ease it, he thought muzzily, when they hang him. A lover’s last gift—the gift of oblivion in the face of a slower death. He closed his eyes and welcomed it.

· 43 ·

D
O YOU SEE THE BIRDS?”
The whisper woke Gilly from his Laudable stupor. “Did you hear the bells?” another whore asked. Gilly could hear it now, through senses dulled and fogged, the deep tolling of the castle bell. He choked on an indrawn breath. He forced himself to his feet; something heavy and cool slithered down his legs. He caught it absently and staggered to the window. The women squeaked as he fell into the frame beside them.

The rooks were wild, flying without pattern, without sense, over the city, flickers of a dark night lingering into the dawn.
The rooks follow him,
Mirabile had whispered. But now, they flew without purpose, without destination, and Gilly felt their panic and loss sinking into his bones. He knew, without words, without telling, that there was no one for them to follow now.

His hand clenched around the object that had been on the bed with him. He opened his palm, saw a watch engraved with sailing ships, and his breath left him, overwhelmed by despair.

J
ANUS STOLE THROUGH THE HALLWAYS
of the palace; those who saw him backed away. He couldn’t blame them. He knew his temper, knew what it was like at the best of times, and this was far from being that. Those unafraid of his rages waited to see what his position would be, now that his lover had murdered the infant earl.

Panic gripped his throat again. What if he had been wrong? What if he’d miscalculated? The threat of Aris deciding that Janus was to blame for Auron’s death was nothing compared to this. Even had he calculated right, the window of safety was so narrow—they meant to hang his body from the turrets in a few hours.

The chapel was silent and dark, empty except for Maledicte. Aris had refused to let Auron lie in the same room as his murderer, had kept Auron by his side.
But such only aids me,
Janus thought,
keeps Aris stupid with grief, and Mal—

He hesitated near the marble bier. So white that even the dried blood on his mouth seemed scarlet instead of brown. No one had cleaned him, given him the courtesies granted the dead. No one would. But in denying the rites, they aided Maledicte one last time by keeping his secret. More, their neglect kept her life…Janus forced a smile at the irony, forced himself to believe that he had been right, that the books thieved from Gilly’s possession had been accurate.

Janus nerved himself to rest his hand on Maledicte’s chest. It was cool to the touch, as still as marble. But when he pressed his fingers against the wound, they came away touched with fresh blood.

Janus dropped to his knees. Thank you, Ani—thank you. As possessive as the books stated, Ani would not relinquish Her hold while the compact remained undone. The relief unmanned him as the fear had not. It took him long moments to regain his composure.

Ani’s strength would keep Maledicte from death, while the poison from the Itarusine court would mimic the symptoms of it. Janus had planned it to a nicety, all variables controlled, and still, it had gone wrong. Maledicte had moved. Had endured a far more lethal blow than the one Janus had intended, had let the blade bite into the heart itself.

Shaking, he wrapped Maledicte around with the shrouding cloth, lifted him into his arms, and headed into the hall.

He left the main halls for the servants’ corridors, hurrying along, careless of noise. This deep into the old palace, the corridors were thick with dust and cobwebs. But once he reached more modern segments, he hesitated. Only one last stretch lingered between him and the stables and his waiting carriage. But a single servant now could see his plans ruined. Or a guard resting in the stables. He closed his eyes, trusting to chance and a castle steeped in mourning.

“Just a little longer, Mal,” he said. “Then it’ll be all over. We’ll have won and we’ll be together.” He forced his mouth shut; a whisper where none should be might bring a servant to investigate or overhear. And there would be mayhem enough when the discovery of Maledicte’s disappearance was made. Better they think him mad with grief, determined to preserve dignity for his lover, than to even suspect that Maledicte might live yet.

The passage stayed silent, and Janus brought Maledicte out into the midmorning sunlight. Janus flinched at the brightness after the dark corridors, but Maledicte’s face stayed fixed. Janus shivered.

He laid him on the seat of the carriage, and called up to the driver, “To Lastrest, and stop for nothing.”

The paid driver looked back at the bundle in Janus’s arms and shuddered, but snapped the reins, spurring the team into a trot.

Janus folded Maledicte’s fingers about his own, but they refused to stay there, slipped away from him, limp and chill. Janus pushed panic away. Maledicte could still die. The wound was so deep, and if Ani’s touch faded…If She forsook their bargain, Maledicte might wake only to bleed to death in his arms.

Janus compared the risks of rough travel and the virtues of speed, and yelled up at the coachman to spring them. The horses surged into a gallop. In the jolting coach, Janus held Maledicte to him more tightly, shielding his body from the worst of the rattling, and thought,
Now, if only that damn boy has done what I asked.

His stomach clenched and roiled. When the rain started, he relaxed a little. The rain could only help. He wondered where the pursuit was now, whether Maledicte had been missed yet, and if so, if the guards had gone to Aris first, disturbing his solitude, or if they’d simply taken off after him. With Echo dead and Jasper dog-mauled, Janus assumed the Kingsguard would dither for some space of time before intruding on Aris.

The coach clattered through the gates of Lastrest, and Janus sprang out of it, carrying Maledicte into the house.

His sudden arrival startled the servants into action; Janus ignored them, headed for his bedroom. He laid Maledicte on the bed, then shut the door firmly behind him, latching it. “Mal?” he said.

But Maledicte was still white, still unresponsive, and cool to the touch. Janus winced; the serum should have worn off by now, and his control veered into panic again. What would he do if Maledicte were gone? If he had killed—

“Sir?” the boy said, the hidden door sliding open. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Did anyone see you?” Janus asked, staring at the young man. Slim as a sword blade, dark-haired, and as pale as powder could make his skin—he made Janus’s heart clench.

“No, you said not to come out. And I’ve been so bored.” The boy turned his lips down in a sullen pout and Janus laughed.

“Sorry, Mal.”

“My name isn’t—”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Janus said, standing. “Does it?”

“What’s that?” the young man asked, as curious as a cat, and as fickle with his attention as the whore he was.

“You,” Janus said, unwrapping Maledicte with careful fingers. “Come and take a look.”

“It’s a wax doll,” the boy said, coming closer.

“No,” Janus said, laughing as Maledicte’s lips tightened, his eyelashes flickered at the light shining on his face.

“I don’t like it,” the boy said, backing away. “I want to go back to the brothel.”

Janus fought the urge to just grab the sword. Chasing the boy around the room would do no good, but he burned to have the deed done, the time spent sealing Maledicte’s wounds. “Without being paid?” Janus said, letting disdain slip into his voice. “I haven’t had you yet. But you’ve had my bed to lie in, the food and drink I gave you.”

The young man came closer, licking his lips. “You won’t—”

“Won’t what?” Janus asked, leaning back against the bedsheets, slipping his hand onto the hilt of his sword, hidden by the shroud.

“Won’t make me touch that—” The boy jerked his head toward Maledicte, still more corpse than living flesh. Janus found a hot ember of his temper left, and said, “If you touched him, I’d have to kill you. I don’t share him.”

“Well, that’s all right, then, ’cause I ain’t going to touch it,” the boy said, slipping around to Janus’s side. Janus drew the boy close, kissed the soft mouth, and pressed the sword home. The boy jerked and gasped, blood spilling up into Janus’s mouth, hot and salty.

“I’m sorry, Mal, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, licking the blood away. “I never wanted to hurt you.” A footstep in the hall woke him to the reality. Not the rooftop again, not Maledicte in his arms, but a paid boy. Janus let him drop, wiped his mouth, and bent his attention to Maledicte. He picked Maledicte up again, passed through the door the boy had used, entered the secret room. Aris would know about it, of course, having grown up at Lastrest, but he might not think to look in it. Not with a body to be found elsewhere.

Janus laid Maledicte down, shoved the debris of the boy’s meal away, and picked up the medical supplies he’d laid in. He stitched the wound closed, reaching in past the skin, beneath the small breast, to sew up muscle and tendon, working with shaking hands. What if it didn’t work—He poured whiskey over the stitching, and Maledicte arced his back, the tendons in his throat standing out.

“Shh,” Janus said, kissing his forehead, wrapping a layer of cotton gauze around the damaged hands where Maledicte had tried to stop the sword. It made him uneasy that these smaller wounds hadn’t healed yet. “I’ll be back. Just rest.”

He shut the door behind him, and wrapped the whore in the shroud, carried it downstairs past the gaping servants and into the gardens, wet with rain.

When he returned to the house, mud-covered and shaking with exertion, wound reopened and bloody, Aris was waiting for him.

“Where is his body?” Aris said; his face was lined, wet with tears and rage. “Where is it?”

Janus knelt. “Find him yourself. Sire.” Aris moved forward and struck him across the face, the blow knocking Janus back across the floor. Exhausted and in no mood to feign obedience, Janus still kept control enough not to strike back, to continue his schemes. Besides, the guards even now clustered around Aris. Instead, Janus let tears spring to his eyes, and whispered, “I loved him too well to see his body displayed, to let them bet on when the crows would take his eyes, and which bones would fall away first, to see the rabble fight over his dropped finger bones.”

“You’ve buried him on the grounds? Here, on the family property of the child he’s slain? He cannot stay here. And he will be hung high. As all traitors are.” Aris paced the room, peered out through the rain-streaked glass, gestured to the guards. “Start searching. Look for turned earth.”

They bowed and went out. Janus sank down to a crouch again. “Uncle, please.” He made himself think of Maledicte outside, in the earth, trying not to let any trace of his triumph show.

“Did you know?” Aris said, tugging Janus’s face up to meet his. A very different king, this, Janus thought. No longer passive and beaten, but charged with grief and rage. “Did you know what your lover intended?”

“No,” Janus said. “No.”

“The only thing sparing your neck is that he came up the wall, like some damned demon. And he didn’t know how to escape; had you aided him, I would have expected him to sneak in through the doors and flee with more ease.”

Janus wondered if another denial would be more or less convincing than the first. He kept silent, waiting.

“I trusted Maledicte too long, played the fool. You lived in his pocket and yet claim I should trust you—I wish I could believe you,” Aris said. “Wish I could trust my own flesh and blood, but death seems overinterested in smoothing your path.” Aris leaned against the table, his face older than Janus had ever seen it.

“I could have you imprisoned or executed, but there is no other left of our blood. If the line of Last is to continue, it must be through you.” Aris’s hands knotted and unknotted uselessly against his coat. “As for banishment, Itarus would be only too glad to take you in, to use you against Antyre. How would Adiran fare then? I have not the stomach to fight another war over my throne.”

Aris held out a hand, face grim. Janus cautiously took it. Aris clenched his hand tight, drew Janus close. “This is my sin—and my guilt. That I would prefer a conspirator on my throne to the bloodshed that would follow a war or my death without a viable heir. So you have won, Janus. To a degree.

“You will continue as a member of my court. My third counselor. But the moment you approach Adiran, I will have the dogs at your throat. Without hesitation. Your life is now linked to his. If he contracts fever, should he suffer hurt of any kind, you will pay for it. Do you understand me, nephew?” Aris’s eyes were the cold blue of winter skies, and Janus found himself looking away first for once.

“I would never hurt Adiran,” he said, finding his voice. There was no need. Adiran’s presence could only aid him. If he were regent for the simple young man Adi would be, it would be no different from being king in name. But all those thoughts passed in a driving need to return to Maledicte, to make sure the stitches were holding as the poison wore off, to ease his pain.

“Janus, I am sick of your meaningless words. Go upstairs; you are confined to your quarters until we have recovered his body.”

Janus fought a surge of angry temper, reminding himself again that it was the boy, the bait, that they hunted. Doors slammed upstairs, and he focused his eyes on the floor, dropping into a bow, though alarm shot through him. He had expected the guards to confine their seeking to the grounds of Lastrest, ignoring the house itself. Casting a final glance at Aris’s ravaged face, at the guards in the drive passing out spades, he left the room as if reluctant, even while his blood whispered,
hurry hurry.

Upstairs, he found the door to his rooms open, his armoire opened, guards looking through it. He parted his lips to object and his blood froze in his veins. The opened armoire door had blocked the wall from his sight, and the hidden room’s door gaped wide.

“There’s blood on the bed and the floor,” the guard said.

“I was injured earlier. Defending Auron.” His voice was without conscious control; the entirety of his being vibrated with the need to shut the door to the hidden room, though he knew it was too late.