Kel cried out. He would never forget the sound of bone crunching as Vienne’s body struck the wall. She crumpled, sliding limp to the floor as Jolivet hurried to her side, his sword drawn. He bent down, touched the side of her neck. Shook his head. “Dead,” he said, and drew off his scarlet cloak, with its gold braid. He laid it over her body, rising to his feet.
Kel was surprised. It was what a soldier might do for a fallen comrade on the battlefield. Respect for the Black Guard, perhaps, if not for Vienne herself. Kel looked to the King for a reaction, but he was standing over Conor, his hand touching the once gold overrobe, his eyes narrowed.
“Your blood,” he said, roughly. “Is this your blood, child?”
Kel looked over at Mayesh, as if to say: What a strange way to ask if someone is hurt. If Mayesh thought it was strange, though, he gave no sign. He only watched, quietly, his hands folded, his face expressionless.
“No,” Conor said, stiffly. Everything in his posture screamed that he wanted to get away from his father, but Markus seemed not to notice. “I was not hurt.”
“Good.” Markus turned to Jolivet. “The Queen. My wife. Where is she?”
If Jolivet were surprised, he betrayed it with no more than a blink. “In the Carcel, my lord. Which is where you all should be,” he added, turning. “Monseigneur Conor—”
Conor held up a hand. “Are they all dead? The ones who attacked?”
“Yes,” said Mayesh, still standing in the doorway. “The lady of the Black Guard made sure of it. Not a one still breathes.”
Conor was pale, the blood on his face standing out like bruises. “And the Sarthians?”
“Also dead.”
“Will this mean war with Sarthe?”
“Yes,” Mayesh said, again. “Most probably.”
Conor sucked in a breath.
“That is not the concern now, Counselor,” snapped Jolivet. “We do not know if there will be another attack. We must get the family to the Carcel.”
Mayesh only nodded, but the Castelguards had not waited for him; they had already sprung into action. Some surrounded the King; another pair flanked Conor. Kel did his best to stay by Conor’s side as they were ushered from the room.
It was a relief to be outside. Kel had not realized how heavy the stench of blood and death had been inside the Gallery until the night air struck him, cold and clean. He felt as if he could drink it like water.
The stars glittered overhead, a brilliant fretwork. As they crossed the courtyard, Kel pushed his way past an irritable-looking Castelguard and fell into step beside Conor. They were passing through the garden between two courtyards. Colored lamps still glowed among the tree boughs, though the candles that had lined the stone path had been trampled by running feet. They lay crushed into the grass, messes of broken wax.
Rather suddenly, Conor stopped and crouched down by the wall. In the starlight, Kel could see his shoulders convulsing. He was being sick—which was something Kel had seen before, but he did not recall Conor being sick for these reasons. Out of grief, or shock, or more than that.
Conor staggered to his feet, wiping at his mouth with a brocaded sleeve. There were bruises on his face, and a cut on his cheek that might need to be stitched.
He put his hand on Kel’s sleeve. Kel could not help but recall earlier that night, Conor keeping a hand to the wall of the Gallery as he walked, holding himself steady. “I was so unkind to her,” Conor said. His voice was low. “The child.”
He still cannot bring himself to say her name.
“The Sarthians made Luisa a pawn,” Kel said, quietly. He could see the King ahead of him, walking between Jolivet and another Castelguard, his broad back immobile. “That was not your fault.”
“It was my fault,” Conor said. “I thought I was being clever. That I would impress them—Jolivet, my mother, my father. Bensimon. I went behind their backs out of vanity and pride, and now that pride is paid for in other people’s blood. This—” He flung a hand out. “This is my mess. Mine to clean up.”
“You tried to do it all alone,” Kel said in a low voice. “None of us should do everything alone.” He took hold of Conor’s lapel. “Go into the Carcel. I cannot come with you, you know that. But keep yourself and your parents there while the grounds are searched and cleared. It’s the best thing you can do for everyone.”
Because there is something I must do. Something I should have done before. A path I should have taken, a way to protect you that I cannot speak about. That you cannot know.
Conor’s eyes reflected back starlight. “She said I was broken,” he said. “Do you think I’m broken?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Kel, and then Jolivet had come up, and Conor went with him, crossing the grass to join his family as the Castelguards escorted them to the Carcel. Mayesh lingered a moment longer, staring up at the sky as if he wished he could, like the King, find answers in the stars.
“The other Charter Families,” Kel said, carefully. “Are they all right? The Alleynes—”
“Antonetta has returned to her estate.” Mayesh looked at him coolly. “She is unharmed. As are the other Charter Families. They will all be under heavy guard tonight,” he added. “As will the Aurelians, of course. And where will you be?”
“I’ll be staying out of sight,” Kel said, backing away from the Counselor. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not sure I was,” said Mayesh, but Kel was already gone, rapidly crossing the lawns toward the North Gate. He kept toward the shadows, away from the guards who were patrolling the dark grounds. The air smelled of honeysuckle and blood. As he walked, he skirted all manner of miscellany that the nobles, dancers, and servants had dropped while fleeing the Shining Gallery—here a pale glove on the path, like a severed hand, and there the chain of a necklace, an apple-carved garnet, a phial of posy-drops, and a crushed glass goblet, sparkling like dew among the grasses.
A wave of nausea ran through him as he crossed the empty courtyard where earlier Vienne and Luisa had played together. He passed under the archway, pushing his way through the line of Castelguards ringing the perimeter of the inner Palace. Some of them stared at him, but none asked a question. He did not think he would have had the words for an answer if they had.
He was nearly at the North Gate. The sky seemed to rise above him, drawn upward like the painted scrim of a stage. He could see the city below him, its mapped channels of lighted roads, the shimmer of the water in the canals. The walled circle of the Sault.
It would not take him long to reach his destination. It was earlier than he had guessed: The great clock in the square showed it to be near midnight. And then a voice came, from behind him.
“Kel Saren,” said Jolivet. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Yes. Yes, I am.
What followed Lin’s declaration was a silence no ocean could have concealed. Lin looked neither to the right nor the left, only at the Maharam directly before her. His wrinkled hand had tightened on his almond-wood staff, knuckles bulging as if the bones would split the fragile skin. “What did you say, girl?”
“I said yes,” said Lin. She felt strangely light. She had stepped off the cliff; she could no longer clutch at the earth for support. She was falling free, and there was a relief in it she had not imagined. “The Goddess has returned, in me.”