Shadow's End (Light & Shadow) (22 page)

“My answer will be the same.”

“Even so.”
Gently, he pulled me close and bent his head to meet mine. Despite myself, I leaned forward and lost myself in the feel of his lips against mine. Darkness and death and fear faded away, and just for a moment, for now, I could forget tomorrow. There was only Temar’s heartbeat, and my own; I wound my arms around his neck, and I could feel him smile as he kissed me.

Chapter 23

Dawn broke: dull, leaden light from the small windows crept under the double doors in the Duke’s presence chamber, and from there into the bedroom. Sitting on my bed, arms around my knees, I could feel weariness dragging at me, and a strange light-headedness at the thought that I would perhaps never sleep again. I would never take off my suit and fold it, lay my head on a pillow, wake up to see the rising sun. I held no illusions about my abilities: they were precisely enough to get me into the camp, but I would never make it out alive. And that gave a strange sheen to the endless minutiae that had always so bored me: eating and sleeping, dressing and bathing.

It was beyond me, as the war was beyond me—and so I pushed it away. As many times as the thought crept back to me, I rejected it. There was only one thing to think of, and that was Kasimir. I could break it down into its parts, each of them small: moving unseen, the element of surprise, the first strike.

As Miriel began to stir, I tried to find the words to tell her that I would leave her in the camp, and not return. I knew that Temar had told me to make my goodbyes, hoping that I would not have the courage to do so, and so turn back. I smiled at that. He was wrong to think that Miriel would stop me. I did not feel guilty to leave her for this, for I did not think for a moment that she would do any differently in my place. At last, she rolled over on her side and opened her eyes. She went very still when she saw my face.

“Something’s happened,” she guessed, and I nodded.

“I’ve done a bad thing.” I tried to speak clearly, but the guilt was rising up once more. She was watching me quietly, waiting, and the words spilled out “I killed the Duke.” I could find no other way to say it, and Miriel paled to hear me. She pushed herself up to sit.

“Was he coming for us?” she asked, her voice small, and I shook my head.

“Not us.” The shelter of sleep had fled entirely; she was horrified. She tried to nod.

“The coup, then.”

“Yes,” I said, shortly. “He was going to turn the troops in battle.”

“Against—“

“Yes.” At that, Miriel closed her eyes in pain.

“I see
,” she said finally, and I knew that she was lost—she did not know what to think, how to feel. The Duke was enemy and family, both, to her. He had threatened her with death—for all we knew, he had been the one seeking it. Now, he had plotted to overthrow his King, driven so mad that he would rather take the chance of an Ismiri victory than live one more day without the power of the throne.

“There’s more,” I said, feeling wretched, and wincing when I saw her wide eyes. “It’s nothing I’ve done yet, but I think I have to. I know this war can be stopped.”

“Kasimir.” She was no fool, she understood my plan at once. Then her eyes narrowed. “The Duke today, Kasimir tomorrow—and who will it be the day after that?”

“It’s not like that,” I protested, but she glared, stubbornly.

“No? Because you’ve killed once—and I accept his death, he earned it. I would have told Wilhelm of his treachery tomorrow, and he’d be executed in a week. He signed his own death warrant when he plotted against the throne. But to kill once, and then again—where will it end, Catwin? How do you know that tomorrow, you won’t wake up and think that only one more death will make the world better?”

“That won’t happen.”

“How can you know?” She leaned forward, intent, and when she saw my white face, she frowned, her anger turning to confusion. “Catwin?”

“I won’t…come back.” I forced the words out, but she only shook her head.

“What do you mean?” she asked, bewildered.

“Miriel.” The pain I had been holding away crashed in, and I clenched my hands so that the nails bit into my palm. I could feel tears in my eyes, and such a wave of panic that I thought I might be sick.
This was what Temar had hoped for; I tried to hold to my resolve. “I’m not coming back,” I repeated, numbly. “I don’t think I’m going to survive this.”

“No!
Surely you—” She broke off, shook her head. “No,” she repeated, and when I said nothing, I saw panic in her eyes. “Catwin, you can’t be serious about this.”

“Do you think there’s any other way to prevent the battle?” I asked her. There was a stricken silence and at last, slowly, she shook her head.

“But that doesn’t mean that you have to be the one to do it,” she said stubbornly. “Why can’t Temar do it?” She broke off and her eyes widened. “Did you…”

“No,” I said, unwilling to tell her of Temar’s mission and our bargain. I could still smell him on my skin, and the memories of last night made me flush; I bowed my head so that Miriel could not see, and took a moment to steady myself. Then I looked up and met her eyes. “He’s coming with me.” She shook her head, uncomprehending.

“Then why can’t you survive it?” she asked, her voice very small. “One person could fall—but with two of you…” She trailed off when she saw my face, and I saw tears in her eyes; at last I rose and went to sit at her side, taking her hand.

“We can get into the camp, and
two of us makes it surer, but Kasimir’s a warrior, and there’ll be guards everywhere. We can’t hope to—“ I broke off at the look on her face.

“If you can, though, you will?” she begged me. “You’ll come back if you can?”
I had a sudden memory of her question to me, only a week earlier:
will you stay at court with me?
I had said yes, I had promised her that I would not betray her. And now I was going back on that promise, and she did not even reproach me for it.

“Of course I will
come back if I can,” I said, squeezing her hand. I tried to smile, but her mouth was trembling. She wiped her eyes, gave a deep breath, and nodded. It was what she would do, and she knew it: not only the path itself, but choice, and the action, all at once.

“When will you go?”

“Tonight, after dark. After we sign the treaty.” I was trying to distract her, but even that elicited no more than a nod. “We should get dressed,” I said softly, and Miriel was untying her robe when there was a scream in the other room, the hysterical shriek of a maid. The door to the presence chamber slammed open, and there was the shouting of the guards, and Temar pounding on the door.

“Catwin! Is Miriel there? Is she safe?”

“Miriel is here,” I called back. I cast a quick look at Miriel to see if she was still decent, then wrenched open the door, stifling an exclamation as I looked into the main room. The Duke was slumped over his desk, his skin grey. One of the guards was frantically checking for a heartbeat, and another looked between Temar and me, his eyes narrowed.

“The two of you came and went last night—did you see anything?”

“The Duke had much to accomplish before setting out to war,” Temar said smoothly. “But by the time we returned, he was in his chambers, sleeping. Catwin, you said you came back for instructions from him—did he say anything strange?” I shook my head mutely, moving aside for Miriel to make her way out of the bedchamber. She, too, gave a gasp when she saw her uncle’s body, and she shot me a horrified look. It was not feigned; it was one thing to hear that he was dead, and another thing to see it. Despite her words to me, I could see her horror that I had killed, and I looked away rather than meet her eyes.

But Miriel had moved into action at once, a performance I
could only admire.

“How could you let this happen?” she demanded of Temar. “How could you let an assassin in?” I saw him control the inevitable rise of his temper.

“No one came or went last night save us,” he said. “Surely the Guards would have told us if that had happened. Could anyone have slipped past you?” he asked, and the guard bristled.

“No one went in,” he said, his hand clenched around his sword hilt.

“Well, he was poisoned,” Miriel snapped. “Tell me how that happened!” She was playing a role, but the fear was real enough. Her eyes were wild, her hands clenched.

“Begging yer pardon, my Lady,” the other guard said apologetically. “But it might not be poison. There’re signs, but only a healer can check for them. Sometimes men just die.”

“On the eve of battle?” Temar asked him coldly. He and Miriel were glaring at the man, and I could only appreciate their skill in dissembling. I was frozen, too horrified to do any more than keep my mouth shut, afraid that I would blurt out the truth. The war, the treaty, everything had faded away and there was only this: the Duke’s corpse, and the terrible realization that I had killed him. I had killed him, and he was dead, and there was no way of reversing it.

He signed his own death warrant when he plotted against the throne,
Miriel had said, and I repeated the words to myself, running through them again and again in my mind. How many would have died today, tomorrow, when the Duke urged his men to strike out at their own comrades?

“Catwin.” Temar shook me gently, and I came back to the present, looking at him wide-eyed. “You must get Miriel to safety. Take her to the upper floors.” I was grasping for some excuse to make when Miriel spoke up.

“No,” she said clearly. “I must go to the Camp.”

“My Lady?” Temar and the guards stared at her as if she had gone mad, and Miriel drew herself up, her back straight, her chin lifted.

“I may not be able to lead my uncle’s men in the fight,” she said, “but it is a lord’s duty to give courage to his soldiers on the eve of battle.”

“My Lady, it is too much of a risk—“

“This is not a matter of my safety,” Miriel said crispy. “I am the last Celys. It is my duty to walk among them as he would have done.” She did not wait for a response, only turned and went into her chamber. “Help me dress,” she called to me, over her shoulder. “I’ll need to wear grey and white.”

“She should not go,” Temar insisted, and at last I drew myself up as well.

“She is right,” I told him. I swept my gaze over the guards. “She is the last Celys. She need not ride into battle, but it is right for her to bring courage to the men.” Hoping that Temar would remember my insistence that Miriel needed to go to the camp, I shot him a look and followed Miriel, closing the door to the room behind me and looking around myself.

She was not there; it was as
if she had disappeared into thin air.

“Miriel?”
Silence. Then, at last, the sound of a sob caught my attention, and I took a few steps into the gloom of the windowless chamber. Miriel was in the corner, hidden behind the wardrobe. She had stuffed her fist into her mouth to muffle her sobs and she was hunched over, shaking. I went to her, but hesitated. “Miriel?” I asked, tentatively, and she looked up at me, her eyes reddened with tears.

“I hated him,” she said, thickly. “I told you to kill him, d’you remember?”

“I do.” She had been exhausted, worn down to defiant hatred. She had ordered me to kill him, and I had agreed. Then I saw: the pain in her face was not grief, but guilt. “You can’t think this is your fault,” I said, aghast. I had killed him—it had been me, my hand that tipped the poison, while Temar and Miriel both had been ignorant of what I did.

“I told you to. I plotted against him—and I would have killed him!” The last words came out as a wail, and she ga
ve a horrified look to the door, thinking of the bustle of men outside, terrified that they would hear her admission. I gave her a shake, to recall her.

“But you didn’t,” I said, sure of that if nothing else. “It was me, remember? I was there. You weren’t. You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“It was losing the throne that drove him mad,” she whispered.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I insisted. “He plotted against the throne, didn’t he? He would have been executed, wouldn’t he? And you wouldn’t have thought that your fault.” She shook her head uncertainly, wiping away tears with her fingertips.

“No, but…”

“But nothing
.” I took her shoulders. “If you had never come back to court, never seen him or heard from him again, he would still have plotted treason, and he would still have been executed for it. It was always his plan to control the throne, and he would have sacrificed anything and anyone to get there.” Miriel bit her lip and nodded. “And you have to get dressed in Celys colors, and go to the camp, and speak to the men.” She nodded again, and tried to smile.

“And then the treaty,
” she whispered.

“And then the treaty,” I agreed.

“And then—“

“Don’t speak of it,” I said, feeling the familiar rush of panic. “First, the treaty.
That’s all that should matter to you.”

Chapter 24

In preparation for the battle, the camp was chaos. We pushed our way through it as quickly as we could, Temar trailing behind us as he was accosted by servants and soldiers alike. Rumors of the Duke’s death had spread like wildfire, and enough recognized Temar’s face that he could go only a few steps without another cry of, “Hoy! Voltur!” He did not waste these opportunities, instead commenting darkly that it might look natural, but he himself knew the truth—how could the Duke, one of the most feared commanders of the Heddrian army, have fallen on the eve of this battle, but by treachery?

And so, with a sly word here, and a muttered sugge
stion there, Temar began to drive the camp into a frenzy. Any rational person would have asked him, skeptically, how it was that an Ismiri assassin had made their way into the Fortress itself, and not killed the King, Guy de la Marque, Gerald Conradine, Efan of Lapland… But no one asked. In their fear of the battle, and their need to hate their enemy, they accepted Temar’s suggestions without question, and where our little party passed, a roar for vengeance went up in our wake. If Temar and I failed tonight, on the morrow the soldiers would go into battle driven to avenge their murdered commander.

It was a lord’s duty to inspire his men, and so when we reached the tents of the men from Voltur, Miriel had given a brief speech, to thank the soldiers for their courage and ask them to fight all the harder in her uncle’s memory. She was only a young wom
an, but she was the Duke’s heir, and at her insistence that they be thanked for their service, the men had sent up a cheer. To the sound of their shouts, she had withdrawn into the tent, and I had gone to pass a scrap of paper to a runner and send him off, searching for the King.

Now Miriel
and I waited quietly, listening to the sounds of the men around us. The men of Voltur had set up camp with the quick efficiency of a practiced fighting force, and now they were gathered around a firepit, trading stories and sharpening weapons, while we waited, cut off from the court, horrified by the magnitude of what would happen in the coming hours.

The Duke’s tent was not large, but it was richly-appointed, with carpets spread on the bare ground and oil lamps hanging precariously from the ceiling. In the corner, there was a desk for him, with ink and quills, and sealing wax. I wondered at the luxury, and then wondered—with a pang—how many noblemen were writing last letters to their loved ones, final instructions to their stewards and accountants. It had been many long years since the nobles of Heddred had seen war and death, and every nobleman I had seen in the camp had fear in his eyes.
It occurred to me that we were not so different: sitting, waiting, signing a treaty that might have no purpose at all within the day.

It was late afternoon when, at last, Wilhelm ducked into the tent. I had seen him earlier in the day, always in close-headed conference with his generals, shaking the hands of his soldiers, offering encouragement. His world had narrowed to the scope of tomorrow’s battle, and his face had settled into the grim expression of a man twice his age. His face showed such relief to see Miriel that I realized Wilhelm had been afraid for her.

“What did your message mean?” he asked her quietly. “My guards have been sent to track Isra’s movements, and they can arrest Arman if it is necessary—but why? Was it murder, truly? Did they kill your uncle?” Miriel bit her lip, unable to voice the truth. After a moment she shook her head.

“No,” she said, her voice choked. “It was I who had him killed.”

“
What?”
Wilhelm and I spoke in unison, and I knew that my face echoed his look of shock. He looked over at me and I shook my head; I did not know what to say to this.

“He was planning an insurrection,” Miriel said, attempting to be calm.

“Against me?” Wilhelm asked. He was holding tight to one of the tent poles, his knuckles white, his face blank. His world, already turned upside down by war, was growing less stable by the moment.

“Yes.” Miriel’s voice was low, and I knew she feared that her uncle’s men would hear her. I could hear them outside, singing the songs I recognized from the guards in Voltur, calling out challenges to each other, betting on how many Ismiri they could kill. It would break their spirit to know that their revered commander was a traitor, and shame them in front of the other soldiers. Best they fight to avenge the man, and know nothing of his dishonor.

“Forgive me for not making it public,” Miriel said, “but I did not know what to do. I could not go to speak to you, and I could trust no one else. There can be no doubt of his guilt—my marriage cemented the alliance. I feared that if the truth was known, it would sow discord. It was my uncle who would have turned the army against you tomorrow, in the battle, and I could not allow that.” She folded her hands and took a deep breath. “It is death to plot treason,” she said finally. “His life was forfeit.” She repeated the words as she had repeated them to me, numbly.

“Who else knew of this?” Wilhelm demanded, and Miriel shook her head.

“I cannot know for certain,” she said helplessly.

“A moment,” Wilhelm said courteously. From the white lines at the corners of his mouth, he was holding his composure only by a thread. He ducked outside the tent and I heard him speaking, low-voiced, to one of his guards. When he came back, his face was grim. “They will be arrested,” he said, “and they will stand trial. I must thank you for telling me of this.”

Miriel nodded, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. In the wake of such a revelation, there was little enough they could say. They were watching each other, eyes bright, and I saw that the world had faded away for them. They could see only each other now. Miriel was staring at him as if she had forgotten how to speak; he was looking at her as I had once looked at Temar—as if he had seen her in his dreams so often that he had forgotten she was real. Then they both tried to speak at once.

“I sent for you—“

“I thought of you every day—“ They broke off, and Miriel’s brow furrowed.

“You sent for me?” she asked, and Wilhelm bowed his head.

“After Garad—“ He clenched his hands. “I sent to your uncle, I told him that I must see you. I intended to offer for your hand, I swear it. But he told me that you had already gone, that you wanted to return to Voltur.”

“I did not,” Miriel protested. “He sent me back, himself.”

“Later, I knew it for a lie. I knew you would not leave without—“ Wilhelm broke off and shook his head. “But it did not matter. The moment they knew of Garad’s death, the courtiers thought it was I who’d had him killed.” His face was so anguished that even I felt my heart twist for him. “As if I ever could have done so,” he whispered. “I kept thinking—if only the High Priest had come to find me sooner, we might have saved him.” I choked off a gasp, and Miriel and I exchanged one swift, meaningful look.

“How do you mean?” she asked, delicately. Wilhelm had not noticed our sudden attentiveness; he was lost in memory. He shook his head as if it was hardly important.

“We had gone to speak to him about the rebellion. I would not have, after…but the High Priest came to speak to me, and said that if we had any hope of saving the rebellion, I must accompany him to plead with Garad. He told me that he would bring his own guards so that Garad would not think to set the Royal Guard on me. I wanted to go at once, but he delayed, and later I realized—Garad was dead only by minutes. Every day now, I think: if only we had not taken a side hallway, if only he had come to me earlier or I could have persuaded him to go sooner….”

I looked down,
biting my lip. If only, indeed; Wilhelm had no way of knowing what he had just revealed to us. If only the High Priest, with his brace of twenty men, had arrived moments earlier, Garad would yet live. I thought it incredible that Wilhelm had never wondered at the High Priest’s tale. It would be a hanging offense to bring armed guards into the King’s presence, blatant treason to attempt to cow the King into making peace with the rebellion by force.

If Wilhelm thought of it for a moment, he would have known that the High Priest had no legitimate right to bring
his own men against the King. But Wilhelm, wracked with guilt, had never thought of it. And so Wilhelm had never thought to wonder if the timing might not have been just wrong—but instead precisely correct. Who was it that had benefitted from Garad’s death? Wilhelm, who gained the throne so unexpectedly? Or had it been the High Priest, who at last had a monarch he could trust to support the populist movement?

And at last, as the pieces fell into place: not Conradine guards,
not Nilson’s forces, but instead forces loyal to the High Priest, to Jacces. I had doubted it, even as I held the proof in my own hands, but there was no denying it now. The commander had known that he was committing high treason, but he had acted without hesitation, secure in the knowledge that his work would bring the ascendancy of the rebellion. And that was how he had led his men into a massacre, for he had not realized that he, too, would be sacrificed. A force of twenty men, used to kill a King, could only be a liability: twenty men to be seen, recognized, caught—and tortured until at last, broken, they revealed the knowledge that it had been the High Priest who sent them to kill Garad. No, Jacces was far too cautious for that. He would let Kasimir take the blame. It would even serve him to have Wilhelm suspected, for as he defended the young King against rumor, he would gain Wilhelm’s trust.

And that
last realization showed me, finally, why the men had also been told to kill us: a knowing ally was not an asset, but a liability. The High Priest had seen the danger at once when I came to him. He knew that he had a choice: to trust in Miriel’s abilities to turn the King back to her, and to the rebellion—or to wipe the slate clean and install a King who would himself support the movement. And then what was Miriel? She was a useless ally, a woman whose marriage to Wilhelm would be incredibly suspect, undermining the legitimacy of the King Jacces had worked so hard to enthrone. More, she was an intelligent woman who might, at some point, wonder just why it was that Garad had died so conveniently. She, like the men who had carried out the treasonous mission, must be eliminated.

I saw from Miriel’s face that she suspected the same, but she only shook her head slightly and forged on. This was no more than the unveiling of an enemy we had always suspected
; had it been Guy de la Marque, or Gerald Conradine, she would only have nodded, pleased to have an answer at last. She would not let herself think on the fact that the High Priest, after promising to aid her, had instead sought her death. She would find him later, and demand the truth; but now, she had only a few moments with the man she loved, the man who could sign the treaty to change the world—and she would put the High Priest’s treachery from her mind.

“And the courtiers doubted you?” she asked. I could see that she was offended on Wilhelm’s behalf. “Did they not know that you were his closest friend?”

“What should they have thought?” he asked, wretchedly. “A King dies by murder, and who is the first suspect? Who stood to benefit? And worst—“ He swallowed and closed his eyes. “Some of the men remembered that I had spoken of you, once. And then to marry you would only have been to fan the flames. Some believed it was Kasimir, but it was such scandal to suspect me…”

“And so you married your
rival,” Miriel said softly. While I followed Wilhelm’s words, her mind had skipped ahead, as it always did. Wilhelm lifted his head, his eyes wide and hopeful.

“Do you see now? She was the one they would have murdered me for—already there were whispers that men were pledging forces to her father, to put her on the throne. Her own mother had told the lords that she would step aside, and cede the throne to Marie; it was moving too quickly. The only way to end the uprising wi
thout bloodshed was to bind de la Marque to me. And he was happy enough to get what he wanted without a battle.” Miriel nodded, looking down at her clasped hands. She was pale, but composed; I could even see relief in the set of her shoulders. Bitter as it was, this was the man she knew, a man who would put duty over all else. It was no more than Miriel herself had done, when she pledged that her marriage to Garad would bring safety to the rebellion.

“Please believe me,” Wilhelm pleaded. “I would never have done this save in direst need.”

“I know,” Miriel said, and Wilhelm held out his hands to her.

“There is not a day that I do not regret—“

“Don’t.” Miriel looked up at once, her face white. Her lips barely moved.

“What?”
He frowned.

“Do not speak of regrets,” Miriel said simply. “I cannot bear it.” Wilhelm nodded, looking away from her. Marie’s presence seemed almost tangible, and with a pang of unexpected pity, I remembered her stricken look when she had seen Miriel. She might never have loved Wilhelm
herself, but it would be bitter, nonetheless, to know that her husband loved another.

And then, my mind wandering,
I remembered Miriel’s fear when at last her betrothal to Garad had been signed and sealed. She had faced the prospect of ruling with little enough joy. Now, as I looked at Wilhelm’s tired face, I wondered if he and Miriel could ever have been happy, ruling together. I wondered if I had not been wrong to curse the Gods for keeping Miriel and Wilhelm apart; I wondered if fate had, instead, been kind to keep Miriel from the throne.