Chapter XXIII - Assault

Tancred and Jaedon swiftly strode down the dark streets of Ruma. Though the guests of King Brastus would carouse their way through the night, most the inhabitants of the city had retired to their homes in order to get some sleep. Remnants of what appeared to have been wild festivities were scattered about: fire pits with smoldering remains; ribbons, streamers, and other once-bright articles that were faded from being trampled underfoot; and the shadowy figures of pickpockets who were looking to gather things of value from what was left behind by the people’s merrymaking.

None of it drew a bit of Tancred’s attention.

Why did you do it, Zoe?

The answer to that was simple; he just hated facing it. She had gone to get Grace by herself because he had not been there to help her. He had told her he would assist her if she gave him her trust. She foolishly decided to spurn him, and obviously had taken into her head the thought that she could and would do everything alone, independent of him and Jaedon...and Deus.

A noble sounding sentiment, but one that was singularly stupid.

I just needed your trust, Zoe. My mother relies on me; my sister respects and loves me. All my men place their confidence, their hopes, and their lives on the line for me. What is it you find so odious about me that you cannot allow me to help you when you need it so desperately? Ever so briefly, he wondered if his stipulations had been too harsh.

No, he told himself firmly. She could have gained his aid, had she chosen a different path. She took the rocky way; the road of hardship. He could not have kept her from her own decision.

And yet.... Tancred’s heart betrayed him; it palpitated unevenly when he thought of the bruised and wounded condition Zoe had been in when Montel brought her into the castle. When Montel yanked her in, Tancred amended darkly. Like a trophy, or a possession. The filthy lieutenant had treated her no better than a dog.

His hand clenching into a fist as he relived the moment when Montel jabbed his fingers in Zoe’s wound. Watching Zoe pass out from pain had been surreal. Tancred had never seen her physically helpless before. He had long known of her emotional bondage, which she manfully strove to hide from everyone else on the earth, but she was so bodily strong that he hardly stopped to think about her actually being wounded. Now that it had happened, he realized how utterly fragile she was. Right now, anything or anyone could harm her further, or even kill her. We’re deep in enemy territory, and unfortunately Zoe’s best hope is in Brysa, a foreign princess.

Tancred raised his head and glanced around, automatically taking in his surroundings while he kept his mind occupied with more important matters. The night sky was sooty gray in hue as he and Jaedon had passed through the wealthy district of the city and entered the middle-class section. Everything appeared normal; but it was the unearthly quiet that was getting to Tancred’s already raw nerves. He could hear the tiny gravel-like pebbles grinding against the cobblestones of the road beneath his leather shod feet. There was no sound of birdsong, nor was there noise in any of the houses the two men passed.

Jaedon did not seem adversely affected by anything around them, however, so Tancred relaxed slightly. He was probably overreacting. The city was quiet because everyone had collapsed in a drunken stupor from their revelry and foolish celebrations.

A slight noise came from an alley to the left and Tancred ceased walking. Footsteps.

Jaedon stopped as well and turned his head toward Tancred. “What is it?”

“Someone is in the alley.” Tancred’s voice was low as he glanced slowly around, fully alert. He knew he was not overreacting now.

“A thief?” Jaedon suggested. His tone matched Tancred’s in quietness but was also laced with caution. He was well aware that Tancred’s instincts were not often wrong.

Tancred waited. The stillness of night hung heavy in the air; the barest whisper of a fresh autumn wind ruffled a lock of hair across his forehead, but he stood as still as if he had been carved of stone. The breeze carried with it a faint sound from the alley: a stealthy step, a whisper of steel.

Without warning, the outline of a dark figure could be seen at the mouth of the alley. The distinct whirring sound of a thrown dagger could be heard as Tancred simultaneously threw himself to the side and pushed Jaedon to the ground. The older man struck the hard stones with a grunt of surprise and pain.

Tancred knew instinctively that Jaedon had not been struck by the knife and he himself did not feel the sting of injury anywhere, so he deduced he had avoided the blade as well. Instantly he rolled off Jaedon, drew both his daggers, and sprang to his feet, catlike and wary. A flash of movement came from the alleyway and the shadowy form of their attacker disappeared with a flutter of his cloak. Tancred leapt after him but when he reached the mouth of the alley, there was no one to be seen in the depths of the place.

Tancred stood still for a full minute, listening intently as his eyes roved. He debated running into the darkness to pursue the attacker, but decided against it. The other man had the advantage; it would be foolish to track him, especially on turf that Tancred was not as familiar upon.

Jaedon had risen to his feet and stood solidly behind Tancred, guarding the younger man’s back. Tancred had both his daggers extended in a ready position, but the longer the silence stretched, the more he knew that the attacker had successfully spirited himself away and would not be returning.

Not...yet.

Finally Tancred sheathed his wrist dagger and slowly turned from the alley. “He’s gone,” he said shortly.

“But he left this,” Jaedon replied, his tone filled with quiet anger. Walking a few paces away from the alley, he yanked a dagger out of a nearby building. The six-inch blade had been completely buried in the wall of the blacksmith shop. It obviously had been thrown by a skilled individual with what would have been fatal force, had it landed in its mark.

“An assassin, then,” Tancred stated with calmness he did not truly feel.

“Yes,” Jaedon assented grimly.

“The hilt is not marked or stamped in any sort of Elangsian way,” Tancred noted thoughtfully. “He’s not working for Brastus, perhaps? Could he be an independent agent?”

“Whoever he is, you know what this means.”

Oh, yes. Tancred knew. There was only one logical conclusion to draw from the nighttime assassination endeavor.

Somebody knew that Cormac Alstair was the Hunter.

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A knock sounded on the door. Brysa felt her shoulders automatically become rigid but forced them to relax as she nodded at Rebekka, who walked smoothly forward and opened the door a crack. “Who is there?”

A gruff male voice was heard: “Open in the name of Maurelle Alustate, highborn lady and queen of Elangsia.”

Brysa blinked, simultaneously wiping her palms on her skirt to rid them of sweat. Not Father? Her mother was the last person she had expected.

Rebekka quickly complied with the command given her from the queen’s men, and the queen’s two personal guards entered with the same loud step that Brysa had heard approaching down the hall. Following them was Queen Maurelle, who was still clad in the velvet gown she had worn to Brysa’s engagement ceremony. The only difference was that now her hair hung in two long braids down her back rather then bound in a net of pearls at the back of her head, and that her crown had been removed for the evening.

Brysa recovered from her initial surprise and walked forward with a very noncommittal smile plastered on. “Good evening, mother.” She dutifully kissed the pale cheek that was presented to her and took one of her mother’s slender palms in a gesture of greeting.

“Good evening,” Maurelle responded coolly. The queen glanced at Zoe’s seated figure and slowly retracted her hand from Brysa’s cheek. “Ah. So it is true. I heard from a servant of a conflict occurring between you and a lieutenant, Brysa, but I did not believe it until now.”

Something about her low and unemotional tone chilled Brysa. She said nothing, lowering her chin slightly.

Her mother’s murky brown eyes flicked back to Brysa, questioning and tinged with what might be disapproval. “Who is this, Brysa?”

“I am Zoe.”

Zoe’s reply was hard-edged and ill-timed. Curse you, why don’t you hold your tongue? Brysa savagely thought. Did Zoe not realize the stakes of the situation? If Maurelle was not convinced that Brysa had a legitimate reason for keeping Zoe around, she could very well override Brysa’s authority and have Zoe sent to a prison cell. She could even order Zoe’s execution, for goodness sakes!

“Mother,” Brysa addressed the queen in a calming voice, swiftly recognizing her mother’s indignation at being addressed so bluntly by Zoe, “she is wounded and knows not what she is saying. Show lenience to her. It will not happen again.”

“She ought to be beaten for insolence,” the queen continued angrily, seemingly untouched by Brysa’s appeal.

“Please, mother.”

Maurelle’s face twisted with disdain. “She appears to be an utter vagrant. What sort of absurd garb is she wearing?”

Brysa inwardly admitted to having speculated the same thing. Zoe’s trousers had been the reason Brysa originally mistook her for a male prisoner.

“She is not from around here,” she explained. “She is a slave from...” she paused for the briefest moment and then smoothly lied, “from Aerilya. Lieutenant Montel had captured her, but I disliked how he treated her. Moreover, she looks like she might be reformed. Rebekka has been a great help to me, and she came from a similar situation as this girl.”

If Zoe could keep her mouth shut, Maurelle would not know that half of Brysa’s words were lies. Brysa sent Zoe a quick, meaningful look that clearly conveyed what she wanted: Don’t say anything.

Those green eyes flashed resentfully, but surprisingly Zoe obeyed.

Maurelle surveyed Zoe contemptuously for a moment longer, causing Brysa’s pulse to pick up. What if she did decide to send Zoe to the dungeons? Her mother was prone to acts that were strange and sometimes illogical. Brysa did not know what to expect. She kept a wary eye upon the queen, waiting for her to speak.

“She looks unruly,” Maurelle stated. “The dungeons would purge her of that, daughter.”

“I intend to purge her of all rebellion myself,” Brysa replied, keeping her voice level but firm.

“You ask for trouble.”

“I am the crown princess. I will face trouble bravely.”

“Indeed.” The queen turned away with a billow of her heavy skirt and looked at Brysa appraisingly. “You are engaged,” she stated, changing the subject abruptly.

Engaged. Brysa had almost forgotten about that upon the appearance of Zoe. Now, she wished she could always forget it.

“Yes,” she finally responded to her mother, her stomach clenching. “Yes, I am.”

The queen stood quite still, her eyes flitting over her daughter’s face and her hands twitching oddly at her sides. Brysa had long suspected her mother’s mind was frayed along the edges. She had already observed her mother’s ranting when she was overly tired or stressed. Recently, Maurelle had even gone so far as to put a maidservant to death for spilling a few drops of wine on her gown. Brysa’s lips tightened. Losing touch with reality would be an appalling thing for Maurelle—and ultimately everyone around her—to go through. A queen without discretion was a dangerous person indeed.

Maurelle turned to Rebekka suddenly and said, “Take her away. I don’t want her here.”

For a moment, Brysa thought the queen meant for Zoe to be taken to the dungeons after all. Then she followed her mother’s pointing finger and realized she wanted Zoe and Rebekka to retire to a small chamber that was adjacent to the larger room. Brysa nodded to Rebekka, signaling her to obey the queen. After a moment of struggling and a gasp that slipped between Zoe’s clenched teeth, the two young women retreated out of the room and into the seclusion of the adjacent chamber.

The queen turned back to Brysa. “Now that we have no audience, I shall speak openly,” she stated. “I too was the bride of a man I did not know. Your father was a gruff man who did not know how to treat women.”

What exactly has changed since then? Brysa thought sarcastically, but held her tongue. Her mother’s eyes grew shaded and her voice slower as she slipped into memories of her past

“Jaquin...he may learn to regard you with deference if you choose to stay out of his way and let him rule his lands the way he wants to.”

Living life from the shadows had never tempted Brysa, and right now it seemed more lackluster than anything. Straightening her shoulders, Brysa began walking to the other side of the bower, falling into the slow, measured stride that she always used while pacing.

Her mother silently followed her. After walking to and fro twice, Brysa halted on the far side of the room, away from the guards, and turned toward Maurelle.

She whispered, “Father has condemned me to more than just marriage to that swine of a man, Mother. He’s planning on betraying the Wild Men after we battle the Aerilyans. He’s planning to eradicate them once all is finished.”

“Yes, I know.” Maurelle’s eyes glittered.

Brysa stared at her, disbelieving. She knows? Perhaps she did not fully understand the extent of damage such a deed would inflict. She couldn’t understand. “After I’m sent to some foreign land with a man who loves nothing about me but my face, my own father is planning on ruining my livelihood,” Brysa expounded, her voice trimmed with resentment.

Her barely restrained passion had no impact on Maurelle, who was listening with an unnerving, dreamy half-smile on her lips. Shocked and suddenly angry, Brysa’s judgment was clouded.

“Perhaps you haven’t thought this far ahead, Mother, but I cannot survive if the Wild Men are destroyed once I am sent to live in Rulaan! What are the plans for me then? Have you any inside knowledge from your beloved husband that I might learn from you?”

Whack!

Brysa recoiled, her eyes wide, as her mother’s hand landed across her cheek. Maurelle’s face was flushed and her lips trembled with fury. The smile had disappeared and was replaced with a twisted expression of disgust that tore at Brysa’s heart.

“Do not ever,” Maurelle said tightly, “address me in such a way, daughter. Those were the words of a childish fool.”

Silence stretched for a long minute. Brysa felt humiliated and a little dazed. Her mother had never struck her before, nor looked at her with such resentment and bitterness. To Brysa’s dismay, she felt a tear overflow and run down her cheek. Why could she not learn to restrain her emotions?

Brysa’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and she tried to focus only on her mother. She must apologize. She had stepped out of line by challenging the queen.

“Forgive me,” she forced out, opening her eyes.

“You are the crown princess of Elangsia and my daughter,” Maurelle picked up her diatribe again, not heeding Brysa’s apology. A fleck of spittle flew from the queen’s mouth. “You must act mature, Brysa, for that is your duty. Marrying Jaquin is part of that duty—embrace it, or embrace suffering.”

Each word felt like a gash being cut deeper and deeper in Brysa’s heart. By the time the queen finished, Brysa’s solitary tear was dry and her spirit shattered like a weak piece of glass. But her expression, in contrast to her aching soul, was as hard as flint.

Maurelle’s chest heaved after she finished her tirade, and the two women stood looking at each other. Then, as suddenly as her anger had struck, Maurelle’s rage faded. “But,” she said in a unnervingly calm tone, “as you have expressed remorse over your words, of course I shall forgive you.”

Her voice was soft again, but the damage was done. Brysa realized with cold certainty that her mother was not to be trusted. The queen cared not for her daughter. After years of being suppressed and forced to submit to a brutal husband, Maurelle was looking out for one person, an done person only: herself. Brysa did not qualify as one of her top priorities anymore—if she had even qualified as a priority at some point in time.

“As for plans after the Wild Men are disposed of, your father and I could find you a lord or knight to settle down with afterwards,” Maurelle continued, oblivious to Brysa’s acidic thoughts.

“Who would want me?” Brysa asked bitterly, spreading her arms apart. “After being the wife of the prince of the Wild Men, what honorable man would even wish to lay eyes upon me, much less be my husband?”

“Your beauty appeals to many,” Maurelle snapped. “We would find a man who is willing.”

“Ah.” Brysa’s brows lifted and her arms fell loosely back to her sides as she replied dully, “My beauty. Would that I were ugly as sin, then. I rue the day I was born, as should everyone around me. I am nothing, Mother. Nothing!”

For a moment it looked as if Maurelle would strike her again, and Brysa braced herself. But at the last minute her mother lowered her palm and said grimly, “You are the servant to the people. We need the Wild Men to defeat the Aerilyans. You are the one who will accomplish this.”

Turning so that her back was to Brysa, Maurelle studied a tapestry hanging on the wall and continued quietly. “Your father wished to marry you and Jaquin in a fortnight and send you to Rulaan before they assembled for battle.”

Brysa’s heart turned to ice at the thought of going with Jaquin in a fortnight. She swallowed hard and whispered, “Must I go with him?”

“No.” Maurelle turned her head so that Brysa could see her profile. “Not yet. I convinced Brastus to allow you to stay here until Jaquin and Naard have gathered their troops and returned. After the battle is complete, a marriage will take place and you will go with Jaquin—as Queen of Rulaan. Within three short months we will march on Rulaan and take you back.”

“Oh.” Brysa felt slight relief at the fact she would not be marrying for a little longer, but could not find it in her to rejoice at the small kindness shown her. The fact that her parents were both willing to trade her away for something as stupid as a military alliance to gain more power and land caused her heart to harden. Still, she managed to grind out a brief “thank you.” She tried to be grateful. “I don’t know how I can repay you for keeping me here in Ruma until—”

“You can repay me by satisfying Jaquin and keeping the Wild Men distracted until we do away with them,” Maurelle replied sharply. “That is your purpose, and you will not fail. After Rulaan and Aerilya are both ours, we all come out victorious. You will be free from Jaquin; your father will be happy as he rules three times the amount of land he now has; and I....”

Brysa watched a thin smile spread over her mother’s face. A disconcerting look of faint madness touched Maurelle’s eyes. “I,” Maurelle repeated softly, “will be sent to live in Trildur, the palace in Aerilya. It shall be quiet; richly furnished...and blissfully without the presence of King Brastus Alustate.” She spat out her husband’s name with an attitude of utter contempt.

Brysa could relate to that. What love she might once have felt for the man who sired her had withered altogether over the last few months.

Without warning or a word of farewell, Maurelle took her leave. Brysa watched her mother exit with her small escort of two men; the princess kept her shoulders thrown back in a position of strength...until the door shut. Then she fought back the urge to lie down, shed the tears that longed to be loosed, and lick her emotional wounds.

It seemed everything and everyone had taken an evil twist. The queen—and king, for that matter—of Elangsia were utterly self-seeking and heartless. Brysa was engaged against her will to a foreign pig. She glanced across the room toward the door that hid Zoe and Rebekka from her sight; struggling to see through tears that stole away all clarity. Little things, both important and unimportant, bombarded her.

The strange girl Zoe was here indefinitely. Rain was beginning to pelt the side of the castle. Brysa felt cold. A draft blew through. One of the candles extinguished.

Yet, looming above all this was the thing that threatened all; the cataclysmic event that already was becoming impossible to avert.

She would marry. And when she married...war would come.

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“She’s trying to help,” Rebekka whispered.

“Funny way she goes about doing that,” Zoe gritted. “Enslaving me seems to be doing just the opposite.”

Rebekka sighed. “She has been good to me,” she stated quietly. “She puts on a harsh facade, but that is all it is: a facade. She’s soft...and in much pain beneath it all.”

Pain. What did the pampered Elangsia princess know of real pain, Zoe wondered bitterly. Yes, Zoe had seen the look of fear in the princess’s eyes when the knock sounded at the door, and she quickly surmised that the relationship between the queen and Brysa was not strong or especially loving. But despite that, the princess was wealthy and privileged. Surely she was selfish and ruthless at her very core.

“My story is undoubtedly worse than hers,” said Zoe coarsely. “What is more—”

“She’s being treated like a dog,” Rebekka interrupted, her voice angry and face glowing. “Stop acting as if she has no feelings, Zoe!”

Zoe was taken aback at Rebekka’s passion. The golden-haired woman was not prone to emotional outbursts. Zoe remained quiet and waited until the flush faded from Rebekka’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Rebekka murmured. “You’re wounded; I should be letting you rest.”

Zoe had forgotten about her shoulder wound. Now the pain flooded back and the torn muscles protested with fiery vengeance.

Rebekka turned to a small wooden cabinet that sat in the corner of the chamber and rummaged through it, withdrawing a chalice, a small flask of clear liquid, and a packet of what appeared to be dried leaves. She poured the liquid into the goblet, crushed two leaves into it, and swirled it around until it had mixed. Turning to Zoe, she held it out. “Drink this.”

Zoe took it and looked into its pale green contents suspiciously.

“It’s an herb that will help repair your injured flesh and muscle,” Rebekka explained.

With a nod of assent, Zoe lifted the goblet and drank deeply. It tasted faintly of peppermint, but had no scent.

“It will also put you to sleep,” Rebekka warned. “Here, lie back.”

She helped Zoe lie down on a pad and covered her with the gray cloak. Drowsiness washed over Zoe. Her eyelids closed as if weighed down by stones. Then, blissful coolness began numbing the white-hot pain that seared her shoulder, and she knew no more.