“No, Your Majesty. I serve you. Only you. His Majesty has protected me from her wrath. I am the only one allowed in and out of the palace. That is how I got you the horse. Please, believe me.”
His beady eyes shone wetly in the darkness. “I tried to get an usuru out, but they shot it down, and then the witch burned the whole Roost to the ground. There’s no news coming in or out. None of the great lords know. No one outside these walls knows what is happening here. You have to leave,please.Save yourself. Tell the High Shepherd. Beg him to send aid.”
She finally pulled away from her son’s secretary, utterly disgusted with him. The time for these pleas had been back in the dungeon, not now, when they stood in the very heart of the viper’s den. Doubt wormed its way into her heart. Perhaps she should leave while she still had the chance. Abandon Edmund. Save Drakmor.
Or at the very least, herself.
Yes, leave the boy,the dark, selfish part of her heart whispered—the very part that had kept her alive all these years.You owe him nothing.
But was she not partially to blame for…all of this? Had she not been the one who had advocated for an alliance with Arath? Had she not been the one to orchestrate the marriage alliance with the heathen king in the first place?
Politically, it had all made sense. Arath was a power on the rise while Elmoria was a flickering flame, on the verge of being snuffed out. She had assumed Princess Mariana would adopt the faith of her husband, as was expected in this world of men.
She had not known the wench was a witch.
She had not known the witch would usurp her son and kill his court.
This wasnother fault. She was no Oracle. She had no foresight. How could she have known any of this would happen?
Edmund could have stopped it. He threw you in the dungeon. He abandoned you to rot. Leave him, the dark voice whispered.Leave him for dead.
She hesitated, each heartbeat dragging by, while Hews visibly sweated at her side. His panting breaths echoed strangely within the stairwell.
“Please,” he whimpered yet again, hardening her resolve.
Very well. She would leave, but only so she could tell the world what was happening here. What could she do by herself against a witch and a small army of witchsworn anyway? She had no allies left here. No one beyond Hews.
And clearly, Edmund could take care of himself.
“Take me to the horse,” she whispered, stepping aside so the quivering puddle of jelly that was her only friend left could take the lead. “I want to be rid of this place.”
Bobbing his head, Hews wiped his sleeve against his brow, mopping up the sweat there. “Thank you, Your Majesty. At once, Your Majesty.” Holding his breath, the man nudged the stairwell door open and stepped into the hall.
Straight into Igor’s waiting blade.
Hews gasped once and went still, hanging limp on the large Arathian’s sword. The witchsworn didn’t so much as blink. He but flung the once somewhat useful secretary aside like nothing more than a pile of refuse wrapped in green and silver livery.
Panic clawed at Charlotte’s throat, desperate to be loosed. She could not remember the last time she had been afraid, but fear certainly took hold of her now, keeping her rooted in place as Igor stepped back and a pair of golden eyes swam toward her through the darkness instead.
“Hello, Mother,” Mariana purred, wafting her left hand through the air as if trying to rid herself of a foul stench. Or show off the bejeweled ring now flashing on her third finger.
Herring. The same one that had been pried from her grasp when she was first tossed into the dungeon. The same one Warwick had given her when they had wed.
So many words burned on her tongue—all the many things she wanted to say to this awful creature.How dare you.That’s mine. You’re mad.But all that came to her in the end was a simple question: “Where is my son?”
She hated the way her voice trembled over the words.
But she hated even more that it was Edmund himself who answered her from further down the hall with a careless, “Here, Mother.”
Edmund, who was juststandingthere, letting a witch threaten her. Who was letting a witch wear her ring. Who had just let the same witch kill Hews. Not that she cared about Hews. But what if she had departed the stairwell first? That sword had clearly been meant for her.
Her anger boiled over, luring her to shout, “You ungrateful worm—”
Mariana cut her off by taking a step closer, a blade now flashing in her hand. A blade as dark as night, with a strange, prismatic jewel embedded in the hilt. “You will not speak about my husband in that way.”
Charlotte’s mouth ran dry.
It was a witchblade.
