The King Slayer Part 12

I open my mouth, close it. Fifer heaves a sigh.

"I thought as much." She takes my arm and tugs me back down the road. "That must have come as a surprise."

I'd laugh at the understatement, were I in a laughing mood.

"I never thought I'd see him again," I say. "I never wanted to. But I did, and then I went and saved him. I don't know why I did that."

"I don't know, either," Fifer says. "But it's a good thing you did, isn't it? I hadn't thought about what it would mean if he were dead, not until Keagan said it. I don't know if any of us had thought about that."

I wasn't thinking about that when I pushed him out of the way of Peter's sword, but I don't tell Fifer that.

"Blackwell must have," I say instead. "Otherwise he wouldn't have put him in Fleet. He meant for him to die eventually. No one gets out of Fleet." Unless it's to the stakes.

"You did," Fifer says shortly. "And now Malcolm has, too. The Order must have some strong magic, not to mention strong connections inside Upminster, to manage that."

"I suppose."

"I'll admit, though, he's not what I imagined he would be," she says. "The way he looked at you. The way he spoke to you. I guess I expected something different."

"Which is?" My tone takes on a bite but Fifer continues undeterred.

"I imagined him being rather cruel. Summoning you, dismissing you. I imagined he treated you as, well"-she pulls a face-"a servant. But the way he looked at you today, the way he took your hand. He tried to kiss you, for G.o.d's sake. He called you Bess."

"He was in shock." I stop to relace my boot. It doesn't need relacing, but it hides my face and the uncertainty I know must be showing. "He thought he was going to die. People do and say strange things when they think they're going to die."

I rise to find Fifer watching me, eyebrows raised. "Seemed to me a little more than that."

"There's nothing more than that. Nothing at all." I throw that last bit over my shoulder, already making my way down the road again. She catches up to me in an instant.

"What do we do now, then?"

"Same thing as before," I reply. "Same as always. Kill Blackwell. Looks like I have to do it even faster now. With Malcolm here, how long do you think it'll be before those guards shoot their mouths off to everyone they know? Before the spy inside Harrow finds out and Blackwell sends in yet more of his men?"

"Nicholas told the guards to keep it a secret," Fifer says.

I look at her.

"Nicholas said you're not ready." She tries again. "He wants you to focus on training. On getting stronger. He told you to let the council sort out what to do about Blackwell. Schuyler told me," she adds hurriedly. "He heard what Nicholas said to you in the solar."

"Nicholas doesn't have to know everything, does he?" I pull my coat tight against the gust tunneling toward us, hardening my already frozen cheeks. "You don't mean to tell me you've never done anything without his permission. Never disobeyed him. Never done the direct opposite of what he-"

"I get the point," Fifer snaps. "But you don't see mine. You're not ready."

I stop. Turn to her. Whatever she sees on my face is enough to make her reconsider.

"Fine." She holds her hands up. "Be a fool. Kill Blackwell. Get yourself killed in the process. By all means, allow me to help."

"That's more like it." I gleam at her. "I want the Azoth. And I want you to help me get it."

"I don't know where it is." She says this fast-too fast. I smile; she glowers. "You'll never get it," she continues. "It's hidden inside Nicholas's house; not even I'm allowed near it. It's protected by spells, and then there's Hastings. Even if you do get in, he'll never allow you to take it."

"You seem to forget who I am."

"Who you were," Fifer corrects. "And I never forget that."

Since we became friends, it's the closest Fifer and I have come to an argument. The road before us, the fields around us, the wind whipping against us, none of it is as cold as the look that pa.s.ses between us.

"I'm going to take the Azoth, and I'm going to kill Blackwell with it," I say. "And while I'm at it, I want Schuyler to come with me."

This time it's Fifer who walks away from me, the wind carrying the stream of expletives over her shoulder. "You won't stop until everyone hates you, will you?"

"I won't stop until he's dead," I reply, but she's too far away to hear me.

In the three days since John's arrest-and since Malcolm's capture-I've kept to myself, in a virtual state of hideout. It wasn't long before the news spread of my betrayal, how I tipped the guards to John's illegal herbs, how I was jealous of his attention to Chime, how I allegedly got my revenge.

It was enough of a scandal to bury the real scandal: that the deposed king of Anglia, once Harrow's greatest enemy, now resides in prison not ten miles from camp.

I no longer sleep in my tent, not after I returned the first night and found it unpoled, trampled, and slashed. I don't join the others at mealtimes, not after the second night I cleared an entire table as if I had the plague, the air full of mutterings: traitor, liar, and worse. Instead, I've spent all my time training, resting in the chapel, planning, and waiting: for the opportunity to steal inside Nicholas's home, take the Azoth, get Schuyler, go to Upminster, kill Blackwell.

Waiting for tonight.

I choke down another meal of oat, pea, and barley stew with a slice of brick-hard bread, hand off my trencher at the mess tent, weave through the sea of soldiers in the field. It's mostly empty now, as everyone is either at supper, the sparring pitch, the library, or, in Nicholas's case, at Gareth's in a private meeting, held to determine what's to be done with Malcolm.

My bag, already packed with what few things I own, is at my side. I carry it with me everywhere now, as I have nowhere safe to leave it. It doesn't arouse suspicion-I look no different this night than I have the past two.

The sun dips over the horizon as I slip over the bridge across the lake, pausing to give Rochester one last look before starting out for Nicholas's. Somewhere inside the grounds is Fifer, still simmering with anger at me, made worse by Schuyler's enthusiasm for my plan.

"Blackwell already tried to steal the Azoth once," Fifer shouted at me last night, before turning the full force of her fury on Schuyler. "If he gets his hands on it again-which he may, if you die"-she glared at me-"he'll be invincible. That will be on you."

"If Elizabeth's going to try to kill him, the Azoth is the best option." Schuyler tried to reason with her. "It's her only option."

"And you wanting to help her has nothing to do with you wanting to get your hands on it."

"Not in the slightest."

Fifer crossed her arms, unrelenting. "Then swear it."

That was how we reached a compromise. Schuyler would accompany me to Upminster and to Ravenscourt, acting as my scout, my guard, and my protection. But he would not help me steal the Azoth, nor would he touch it once I had it, by pain of death or Fifer's wrath, whichever came first.

Three hours later I reach Nicholas's house, following to the letter Fifer's reluctantly given instructions. A fresh bundle of sage and pine tucked into my pocket, pulled out and set alight when I reach the front door. As it begins to sputter and spark, sending up plumes of thick, fragrant smoke, I wave it before me in two long, sweeping diagonal lines. The smoke hangs in the dark evening sky: an X.

I count to sixty, then enter the house.

It's empty inside-and not just because Nicholas is gone. There are no ghostly hands to pluck my bag from my shoulder, or to take my coat and ferry it from the room. Hastings is gone, and would stay gone, until the last of the herbs turned to ash. Sage and pine, burned together, interferes with a ghost's energy, dissipating it into almost nothing. I didn't ask Fifer if it was cruel, but I didn't have to. Forcing someone from his or her home always is, no matter what the reason.

I recall the rest of Fifer's instructions. "Walk to the third beam, beside the painting of peaches in a silver bowl," she'd fairly spat at me. "Kick the bottom-what I'd like to do to you-to release the hinge. Then push. It'll lead you to the wizard pit, and to the Azoth."

Wizard pits. Small, secret chambers built into homes throughout Anglia to protect men and women from the Inquisition, from the witch hunters, from me. Some I'd seen accessed through gaps in staircases, some through false chimneys, others through the privy. Most were skill-less, easy to find. This one is masterful.

I pluck a candle from my bag, light it with another one of my matches, and slip through the narrow gap beneath the beam, finding myself in a small room, maybe six feet square. There's nothing here-no furniture, no adornments. It's completely bare, save for a wooden panel built into the brick wall, narrow and shut and locked.

Tucked into the seam is a note from Nicholas.

Elizabeth, it says. If you're reading this, I ask you to reconsider what you're about to do. There are some matters that are too great, even for you.

This stills me.

The care he's taken of me since I entered his life, it's more than I expected of the man who was once my enemy, a man I once would have killed. He has not become like a father to me, not like Peter; he would never be that. But he is a protector and a savior, both of which I am in exceedingly short supply of as late. Even so, his warning falls short.

It is not enough to stop me.

I fold the note back up, tuck it in my bag alongside all of John's, and fish out a cl.u.s.ter of silver thistles. Fifer a.s.sured me there would be magic on this panel, a spell or curse to keep me out if Nicholas's words failed, and thistle would help to reduce the harmful effects. It'll still be painful-she a.s.sured me of that, too-but I can endure a little pain to get what I need.

I drive my thumb deep into a barb at the tip of the stem, drawing a drop of blood to ignite the thistle's magic, and reach for the door. The moment my hand touches the latch there's a spark, a white-hot flash of blue flame, and a sizzling noise as whatever curse it's imbued with leaps into my skin, up my arm, and into my head, ringing and shaking and vibrating and deafening. I feel as if I've got my head stuck inside a cathedral bell. I grit my teeth against the sensation-I've felt worse-and twist the dials on the lock: 25, 12, 15, 42. December 25, 1542. Fifer's birthday.

The door swings open. With some trouble I wrest my hand from the latch, the ringing in my head subsiding enough to allow me to see it, in the shallow depths of the dark cabinet, lying there, alone: a steely corpse in a wooden coffin.

The Azoth.

I reach in, wrap my hand around the hilt. At once I feel it, surging through my skin as if greeting an old friend: the heat and energy of the Azoth's latent curse, dripped into me the last time I used it-when I tried to kill Blackwell and killed Caleb instead. It hums, erratic at first, a flickering beat in my blood before finding its rhythm, one that matches my own heartbeat. A rapid thump that, as the seconds pa.s.s, grows slower, steadier, and surer.

A grin steals across my face.

I slide the Azoth into the scabbard beneath my cloak, s.n.a.t.c.h up my candle, then retrace my steps through the house until I'm outside once more. I step over the bundle of still-smoking herbs on the threshold, and pull a single mint leaf from my pocket, dropping it in the center. Mint increases energy, and it will help make Hastings's return easier. It wasn't part of Fifer's plan, but I do it anyway: a weak apology.

I'm meant to meet Schuyler in the early hours before dawn, at the desolate crossroads between Theydon Bois and Gallion's Reach, before making our way south through the Mudchute, east out of Harrow, and on to Upminster. But it's not yet midnight, and it's a short distance to our meeting place, maybe forty-five minutes. I've got hours before I need to be there. So I start off on the second part of the plan, thought of and devised by me but wholly unbeknownst to Fifer.

I will go to Hexham to find Malcolm and that student, Keagan. They both just came from Upminster, and they were both just inside Fleet, managing to make it out without detection. They may know things about the city, about Blackwell, about his guard, and about his protection. It could mean the difference between me returning victorious or never returning at all.

AT HEXHAM, A COMPLEMENT OF guards mills about the door, six that I can see: four in gray cloaks, two in black. I take note of their posture, the way they walk, shift their weapons. Listen to snippets of conversation that echo into the still night sky. The men are tired but not exhausted, bored but not frustrated-at least not enough to become restless. Restlessness can lead to gambling, sparring, or fighting, that burst of energy making them jumpy and nervy, alert to things that aren't there.

Or that are.

I move north along the wall, cutting left at the junction, until I'm facing the back of the prison. I run my hand along the wall: rough, k.n.o.bby, and dry, not at all like Fleet. The walls there were always damp and slick with black mold. I sling my bag across my back, secure the Azoth at my side. Plunge my hands into the dirt along the ground, gathering grit for traction. Then I dig my toes into the grooves in the stone and begin to climb.

The walls are high, thirty feet at least, but it's not a hard climb and I reach the top a few moments later, perching along the narrow ledge. I look around, listen. No guards heard me, none of the Watch saw me. There's a certain irony in that, and my earlier grin is back.

Below me is a clearing between the wall and the prison, maybe six feet wide, running the length of the building. There are no doors on this side, only a dozen or so windows, large and unbarred. There's a possibility one of them is unlocked; the day I visited John I recall a few of them were open, filling the hall with frigid air.

I scurry down the wall. Pause, dash across the clearing to the first window. Locked. The second window is also locked, as is the third. And the fourth. My heart speeds up, my breath comes fast. If the guards were to come around the corner, they'd see me, and I'd have to explain what I'm doing here in the dead of night. They could detain me, they could learn where I'm going, they could take away the Azoth.

I run to the last window, the sixth one, slip my fingers under the ledge, and pull. It opens. I nearly laugh with relief, hauling myself in and over the ledge. Inside, an empty cell. Locked, but that poses no problem. I tug a pin from the knot in my hair-tucked there for just this reason-and slide it into the keyhole. A click, a twist, and a pull, and the barred door swings open. I shake my head. The magic on Hexham exists to keep those marked as prisoners inside and visitors, guards-and in this case, intruders-kept out. Even so, it really is a most unsecure prison. If I survive killing Blackwell, I'll have to bring this up with Nicholas.

I search the corridor for Keagan and Malcolm. They're not on the first floor; every last cell is empty. I find the stairs, take them quietly, and make my way down another wide, moonlit hall. I pa.s.s cell after empty cell, confusion rising with every step.

Were they not taken here? Did Peter convince them to place them elsewhere so as not to be near John, somewhere like Gareth's? Did Nicholas have them removed-knowing, the way he knew I would go after the Azoth, that I would come here looking for information?

Or, worse: Was tonight's council meeting a ruse for yet another trial, an excuse to put Malcolm in that hard-backed chair, chains on his wrists and snapping lions at his feet, subject of an interrogation and a scryed, watery verdict? Malcolm is nothing to me. But he is the king of Anglia, the rightful king. Not a common criminal, not a traitor.

Not like me.

I keep searching. But as I approach the end of the still-empty hall, my footsteps slow. Because every cell that ticks by brings me closer to the one at the end. John's. Finally, I stop, unsure whether to continue or to leave.

"I know you're there." That girlish, Airann-accented voice calls from the end of the hall. "No sense hiding it. Come on, then, show yourself."

I hesitate a moment longer, then step in front of the cell the voice is coming from, two from the end. Keagan stands there, leaning into the wall beside the cell door. "Well, well. If it isn't the little sparrow. Bess, is it?"

I glance in the direction of John's cell, then back at Keagan. She's watching me closely, a grin pressing dimples into her cheeks.

"Elizabeth," I say. "If you don't mind."

"Why should I mind? It's your name." Keagan shrugs. "I was just going off what Your Former Highness calls you."

"Bess!" Malcolm's face appears then, pressed between the bars of the cell between Keagan's and John's. His dark hair is mussed, the way he looks when he wakes. I turn my head from it, and from him. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" He looks around me into the corridor. "Where are the guards?"

"The guards are occupied," I say. "I let myself in."

"Did you now?" Keagan says. "Why would you do that? It's late, and this is a prison. You should be home, asleep."

"You've just come from Upminster," I say, going straight to the point. "I need to know what's happening there. How the city is being guarded, and by whom. What Blackwell's doing. How you got in and out of Fleet without detection."

The grin Keagan has worn since I arrived slides from her face. It ages her like a spell, the amused girl at once becoming a suspicious woman. "And why would you want to know that?"

"Tell me the information I want to know, and I'll tell you what I plan to do with it."

Her bright eyes rake over me. They take in my tight black trousers, tall black boots, my hair pulled tightly back, the bag slung across my shoulder. Then they land on the bulge beneath the folds of my cloak, where the Azoth is. .h.i.tched to my waist.

"What are you up to, little sparrow?"

"Fine, I'll bite," I say. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

"You're a little thing, aren't you? Too little to pay mind to, some might say. Some might even take you for granted. But I say different." She c.o.c.ks her head. "I think the things people think you can't do are what gives you your advantage." A pause. "Why do you want to know what's happening in Upminster?"

"That's my concern. Not yours."

"Another thing about sparrows," Keagan continues conversationally, "is that in some cultures, they're seen as harbingers of death."

I glare at her; she grins back.

"Have you come to break us out?" Malcolm's face is still pressed against the bars, his eyes still on my face. He doesn't see what Keagan sees, what's right in front of him. But then, he never did. "You are, aren't you? I knew you would come for me, I knew it."

"Shhh." Keagan waves her hand in Malcolm's direction. "You're going in, aren't you?" she says to me. "To Ravenscourt. You're going to find him." Her eyes once more land on the sword beneath my cloak. "You're going to try to kill him."

"What? No." Malcolm reaches for me and without thinking, I step away. Keagan's eyes follow the movement, her teeth catching her bottom lip; an incongruous gesture. "You can't do that. It's too dangerous. You don't know what Upminster's like now."

"Which is precisely why I've come. To find out." I step closer to Keagan; she steps closer to me. "Blackwell's after us now, you know that. He's after-" I stop. I nearly say me, I nearly say John. I nearly say the stigma. "Them. And he won't stop until he gets them, unless someone stops him first."

"Interesting." Keagan wraps her hands around the bars. Her fingers are long and slim, but her nails are short and ragged; they look bitten off. "First you said us, then you said them. Which is it, sparrow?"