The cadaver shakes violently one final time, a hoarse groan on his lips, and then slumps backward.
No one speaks.
Everyone waits to see if Beneveto will move again.
There isn’t a face in the great hall—human or otherwise—that isn’t pale as a fucking sheet. That goes for my own, too. Because it’s one thing to see the gods spark fey at their fingertips to heat their lukewarm cup of wassail. Another thing entirely to watch a soul bleed out of its casing.
“So that’s how we go in the end?” I mutter, reaching for my wine goblet. “I’d better drink deep and live harder.”
Woudix slowly circles toward me with a face as stolid as fucking granite. “If you’d rather, I could harvest your soul now, Lord Basten. Save you the torment of decades of human suffering.”
His black fey sparks at his pale fingertips.
I lean forward. “Try it—I dare you.”
Sabine presses her foot against mine under the table, sliding me a warning look.
Woudix smirks softly as he slides back into his chair at the table, folding his hands as if he didn’t just suck a spirit out of Beneveto’s body.
Discreetly, I wipe away a bead of sweat on my temple. For all my jokes, a part of me does wonder if that ass, Beneveto, is at peace now. It was a hell of a thing to watch, but I have to admit, there’s a lightness to the room now that he’s gone.
The cadaver is still, finally. Beneveto’s soul peacefully ushered to the Underrealm.
Clean and final—an easy end. Unlike the absolute fuckery of the futureI’mfacing down.
But I get a whiff of violets as Sabine leans toward me, placing her hand over mine, and I snap back into reality. Sure, death might bring a certain calm—but what use do I have for peace if Sabine isn’t there?
“As I was attempting to explain,” Vale continues, tapping a heavy finger on the map. “If we consider Maximan’s information and that of our own spies—” he gestures to Captain Perrin, “—it’s likely that King Rian will attempt to flee to his family’s hometown of Duren. Unfortunately, we do not know how much progress he's made, or what course he might have taken.”
He drags his finger over various inked pathways from Old Coros to Duren.
Captain Tatarin toys with the dangling timepiece around her neck, nimble fingers plucking at the chain. “What are the chances the Golden Sentinels will remain loyal to the Valvere family if Rian attempts to reassert his power from Duren?”
“It’s almost a certainty,” Maximan utters bleakly. “The Golden Sentinels have overtaken most of Old Coros and driven the royal army and Rian’s opposition to within the gates of Hekkelveld Castle. The Sentinel army is ten thousand strong. The Valvere family well paid them. Privileged them with wine and women. Since being incorporated into the royalAstagnonian army, they’ve had their pay cut in half and their workload doubled. Many—if not most—were more than happy to rise up against the opposition. They want Rian back in power. In Rian’s absence, his generals, called the Cold Coins, are in charge.”
“And the royal army?” Artain asks, flicking a speck of dust off his leather tunic.
“They remain loyal to the throne, and whoever sits in it,” Maximan answers. “But there are half as many of them as Sentinels. Many are advanced in age and untested. For the last fifty years, the previous king relied on the Valveres’ Sentinels as mercenaries to do the kingdom’s fighting. The royal army was ceremonial.”
“Lord Kendan,” he continues, “was the one who captured a sentinel and learned of Rian’s escape plan.” He drags a hand over his rough beard. “Called it some maneuver, something like, Tamarind…”
A shard of ice buries itself in my belly. In a hollow voice, I ask, “Tamarac?”
Maximan bows his head to me. “That was it. The Tamarac Maneuver.”
I sit back, reeling. It feels like a damn storm is stirring in my gut.
Tamarac—that was our private word for complete honesty with one another. It meant trust. Bound us closer than brothers. And now Rian uses it as the name for his coup? He might as well be reaching across the border wall to stab me in the back. Either he’s mocking me, or sending a message.
What kind of man has the balls to betray Sabine, lie to me, and still dare to whisper “tamarac” across the wind?
Sabine’s fingernails curl over the map, shredding it until all that’s left of the illustration of Duren are some surroundingbarley fields. A chill radiates from her stiff posture, as though she’s ready for war.
Her incisors are out—flashing in the candlelight. She practically hisses, “Rian poisoned the Lunden River valley—why don’t we repay his kindness? Send a flock of starleons to rain plague on his precious city?”
“There are civilians to consider,” Captain Tatarin chimes in, measured and reasonable. “Tens of thousands in Duren might die. Women and children, too.”
Sabine’s lip curls in frustration, and I half expect her to snarl that it’s their fault for living within Valvere territory. I shift in my seat, unable to look at her. It wasn’t so long ago that her father made the same devil’s bargain, letting starleons loose upon the innocent people in Duren’s arena. At the time, Sabine did the impossible—rode a damn monoceros—to save them.
