The King's Blood (75 page)

The Caretaker placed his own atop theirs and said softly, "She is a witch."

"A witch? Marna?" Ciara said, gesturing to the girl who could lose her shoes while still wearing them.

"Not all who move magic are trained. Some are forgotten, or purposely ignored and left to their own meager skills to survive," the monster continued, trying to pry the dead girl's hands off Ciara's. "We should leave her be."

"But she's still alive!" Ciara cried, her fingers starting to feel the growing pinch of Marna's frozen grip.
 

The Caretaker shook his head, "No, she is dead. This is a...a final twitch, a momentary call of the mind. Like a chicken that is decapitated. The body continues to run even after the danger is past." Marna's eyes followed from her goblin to her friend, like a cat watching a piece of string, but she said nothing, as if she'd exhausted all of her pre-recoded message.
 

"You mean she waited here to give this to me?" Ciara said.

"Yes. And you best make good use of her gift," the monster said stubbornly, tired of babysitting the child.

"How do I..." Ciara rolled her head back, trying to stop the tears she didn't realize were slipping down, "How do I get her to go, to pass on?"

The Caretaker looked at the girl, a disturbingly powerful witch to have been ignored by the covens. But then, they preferred petty politics and infighting to true power. As was the curse of all mages. "I could try something..." he muttered, his other hand digging again into his midsection bag.

Then Ciara remembered. Looking deep for that final spark of life hiding inside her dead friend she said, "Marna. Thank you for your gift." The fingers released from around her hand and fell limply by the dead girl's side. "You can rest now," she said through a strangling sob.

Marna nodded slowly, as if she'd gotten into that wine the girls swore was lemonade and curled up in the snow for a final sleep. The Caretaker grabbed Ciara by her forearms and pulled her away from the corpse slowly settling in. Eventually Ciara turned away, unable to take the sight and they raced towards the knotted tree, but on the wind a small voice carried a singsong voice, "See ya, See-Ya!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A
solitary cough echoed through winter winds as a bloody hand pushed up the tent's flap, leaving behind his mark as he entered. The Queen was up, miraculously, pacing about what some feared would become her tomb if this campaign did not let up soon.

Her weary head turned to the intruder; she barely had time to struggle into something to cover her green wound, "Yes Bedros, what news?"

"I have some..." Bedros paused, trying to rephrase his sentence, "Word's come."

"The Prince?" it had been days and no whisper or hint of the boy's side quest had broken.
 

"No, my Lady," Bedros shook his head. It had been wearing on their mobile troops to maintain attacks on the few Empire soldiers still garrisoned along the beach. They fought as though the gods were on their side. Unfortunately, so did their own men, so most nights came to a standstill.
 

The Queen lowered her chin to her breast, "I feared as such." She mumbled a small speech in her native tongue before grabbing her sword arm in honor. Her head rose, all mourning past as the amber eyes dug to the marrow, "What is it then?"
 

"It is the dead, my Lady."

"The dead? What of them?"

Bedros still held the tent flap in his hands, worrying the edges as he relayed the message he had to hear twice, then rush to the field to prove with his own eyes, "They're moving."

"The Empire is gathering up corpses?" She had heard the tales of the Emperor's predilection with heads, but hoped they were only stories.

"No, the corpses are rising on their own and marching."

Moren searched the man's eyes, trying to find a trace of madness lingering in the steel grey, but all she unearthed was utter terror.
 
"Marching where?"

"Towards the Tower."

"Right," Moren, dropped her dead arm and reached behind with her left for her sword, "Then we march after them. Saddle as many men as you can get mobile."

"This is humiliating."

"Nonsense, now hold still, I've almost got it." A small pick rotated inside the lock and, just as it was about to click the tumbler in place, the metal snapped in Kynton's hands.
 

The assassin, his hands still chained behind his back, fell against their door and glared into the priest's apologetic eyes, "Eîer kartallar tarafından yemiå olabilir."

"Yes, well, fifth times the charm," Kynton shrugged, reaching back into the hidden set of picks stuffed up Taban's sleeve. He'd offered to take them off the man's arm, but as he started to fiddle with the buttons on the assassin's tunic, Taban kicked his knee into the inquisitive priest's guts and smashed his head into Kynton's. After that outburst, an agreement was made that Taban would slide a pick out from behind him and Kynton could work it. It seemed the smart compromise about three picks ago.

Aldrin was tossed onto a sack of grain by their jailor after being handed off by the limping man. Their jailor glared at the mottled mess as the limping man brought them forth, and mumbled something in Avarian before pointing towards the stairs to the basement/dungeon/root cellar/card night-when-you-didn't-want-the-Duchess-finding-out, and shrugged resignedly. Some more Avarian and they were all heaved into what seemed to be a pantry.
 

Isa cracked her head against the barrel overloaded with mealy flour and Taban bounded into a shelf half ransacked of its spices. The priest; however, was given a wide berth as he followed behind his fellows, uncertain what to do. Then the door swung shut tight and locked. Unlike the hospital, this place was built to cut off every door and passageway in the event of an invasion. Not that it worked so well against the men in black.

"Night is coming," Isa said, looking out the narrow arrow slit at the setting sun. They were about to have little more than the two candles left to keep them company.

"What's your point?" Aldrin muttered. He'd been silent since they met the Emperor and he properly stuck his foot deep inside his own mouth.

"With the dawn comes spring," she said as if she was pointing out a missed move on the chessboard.

Red rimmed eyes rolled over to hers, all the cares set upon his brow were replaced by a massive emotional hole, "And?"

"You are tasked to give me the Liam sword before then," she said, looking away from the wallowing prince.

"Shall you wait until the sun rises to kill me or could we get it over with early to save time? Besides, you need to get in line," he looked towards the priest and the assassin having another go at the lock, "Everyone's trying to kill me today."

The witch opened her mouth, but at the dead eye roll from the obstinate teenager, she closed it and returned to her vigil at the window. Curse her mother for saddling her with a child and two grown men who acted like such. She knew, oh she must have known about the priest. That extra touch was her favorite. To "teach Isa humility." She'd been humbled enough the day a child vomited upon her hair and ran back to hide behind his mother's skirts. Oh how she'd wanted to raze the child to the ground, but her mother was calm and gentle, cooing to the kid to watch that he not drink from the wild wine barrels and shoving Isa towards the brackish water tub. "You received enough praise in your first five years for a lifetime, you get no more here on. Do your duty and be thankful for it."

The ode of the witches. "Do your duty and be thankful for it." Well, what now Mother? Where are you? Off in some other tiny village, waiting this out to see if your daughter performs. Did you see this coming? Did you prepare in case your perfect conduit balked? What if she folded up and slept through all of tomorrow? What of your "life's duty" then?

"By every teat on Lada," Kynton cursed as another pick shattered, the shrapnel flying towards the moody prince, who ducked.

Aldrin tried to not sigh, but, well if he could slam a door or two he would. Maybe kick some things over. Play a lute really loud before smashing it over a bard's head. He hadn't just failed, he so completely destroyed everything he ever attempted it'd have been better if he had died that night in the castle half a country away. At least he wouldn't have dragged so many others to their deaths.

"Stop! Stop! You miserable, bumbling cretin of a man!" Taban rose from his knees and turned to face the priest who, despite being the only one unbound, cowered against the door.

Kynton waved the shards of the broken metal in his fingers, "Sorry?"

"For your children's sake, I hope you are sterile," Taban cursed before turning away. The priest shrugged again, and dropped the last broken lock pick into his pocket. They jangled like tongs used to pull teeth as he moved, causing both the assassin and the witch to shudder.
 

"So, now what?" Kynton asked the group.

"We wait for death," Aldrin stated gloomily, still staring at nothing.
 

"Oh good, glad that's settled," the priest tried to lean back against the shelf covered in old herbs long past the drying stage, when a thud from deep within the walls answered back.

Isa rose to her feet, her manacled hands pointing at the priest scrambling up, "What did you do?"

"Nothing, I didn't do..." another thud, even louder, followed by a splintering of wood.

Kynton dashed away from the shelf as it began to shake. Basil crashed into marjoram and dill upon the floor, making a lovely spice rub for fish. A small whisper of voices carried over the wood rattling upon the wall, impossible to make out as shelves crashed into each other.

"Should we call the guards?" Kynton asked, earning a cuffing upon his ears from the witch.

The final shelf crashed to the ground and the entire stone wall pushed open. A sword poked through the narrow gap and an eye thoroughly explored the corner. "Gods, I never thought we'd get through," the voice coughed, as a hand batted at cobwebs and slowly a form emerged from out of the wall. Every jaw dropped as the girl stood fully up and took in her surroundings, "Hi, everyone."

"Cia," Aldrin gurgled meekly before running full speed at her. He made it a few steps before his foot caught on one of the broken shelves and he started to tumble.

Luckily, Ciara caught him before he fell flat on his face, and helped to steady him up, "Good to see you too," she said, smilingly warmly into the boy's shock.

As Ciara pushed Aldrin back to a sit, Isa questioned the miracle before them, "How in the underlair did you get here?"

The girl sheathed her sword and lifted a finger, "Ah, about that." Then she reached behind her back into the shelf hole and grabbed a hand. Helping to steady the hand, more body emerged, squat and grey with a bulbous head and bulging eyes. "He helped," she said pointing to the thing beside her.

Isa screeched, her hair rising up like a startled cat, "Get away from it!"

Ciara looked down at the Caretaker, who was still wiping off his robes the mass of cobwebs they had to climb through. "He's harmless," she said, "a bit weird looking, but that didn't stop us from keeping Kynton."

The priest laughed at that, and slugged Taban on the back. The assassin added to a growing list the ways he would make Kynton's death very slow. Isa; however, stepped forward, for the first time looking down upon someone, "Do you not know what it is? Can you not feel the...of course not. You're so...ah!"

The Caretaker looked up at Isa and bared his teeth, "Do not soil yourself over me, mage. We have larger whales to fricassee."
 

"Where are we?" Ciara asked, looking about at what she feared would be either a guard house or a dungeon. Instead of the stench of sweaty men or dying prisoners in the dank, the room was rather jolly, the fixtures in a light oak that reminded her of old kitchens.
 

"You do not know?" Taban asked, uneasy about the appearance of a goblin, but happy to see his investment return.
 

"We..." she looked down at the Caretaker who was sniffing at the roots piled up on the floor and pocketing some of the better ones, "we were working without a map. It's a long tale."