Ostyia was the one to catch them, shooting to her feet and drawing the thin szitelki at her waist in one rapid motion.
The world spun dangerously as Serefin stood, but he shook it away, forcing himself sober. Well, as sober as possible.
“How on earth did they make it past the walls?” Kacper asked in disbelief.
Ostyia and Kacper both moved instinctively closer to Serefin, shielding him. A spinning dagger cut through the air toward him.
He saw the blade coming and ducked out of the way, his fingers already paging through his spell book without his mind following. He cut open his forearm on the razor in his sleeve and it bled profusely.
“Kalyazi?” he muttered under his breath to Ostyia. A second assassin appeared down the garden path. The third shot out from the bushes, knocking Kacper down.
“Can’t tell.” She seemed torn about which assassin to go after, not wanting to leave Serefin on his own while Kacper grappled with the third.
Serefin knocked her toward the one down the path as he crumpled a spell book page. His magic ignited and he let the assassin in front of him draw close before he lifted a hand and blew on his bloody fist. The paper crumbled into dust in his palm and shot in an acrid spray into the masked face of the assassin. When the dust hit, it burst into flames.
Serefin lashed out with a booted foot that connected with the assassin’s middle. The man went down in a heap. He turned to find Kacper had cut the throat of one assassin. Ostyia—shorter than her attacker by almost half—had cast a spell that made the last assassin falter. As he tried to regain his footing she threw herself at him, catching her legs around his waist and driving both blades into his neck. She gracefully leapt off as the man fell.
Well, that was short work. Serefin wasn’t sure who would send such incompetent assassins after him, but apparently someone had too much faith in their purchase.
Ostyia turned. Her single eye widened.
“Serefin!”
Something hit the back of his head. Pain exploded through him and he stumbled forward. He felt the stone path scrape his knees open. He managed to roll into a crouch. His vision swam and he could barely make out another set of three figures in the darkness.
Of course there would be more. He tried to stand but his struggling vision and spinning head made it impossible.
Kacper moved toward the new group, but one of them was already at Serefin’s side, a flash of steel at their hands. Suddenly they were gone and a figure Serefin couldn’t identify was standing in front of him.
The new figure’s face ducked before his.
“Get him up, I don’t think he can see.” He knew the voice instantly.
“Lady Ruminska, I don’t think—” Ostyia called, but Żaneta was already turning to face the remaining pair of assassins.
Blood ran down her arms as she tore two pages from her spell book. She wiped blood over them both while dodging out of the way of the assassins’ blades. One by one she let the pages flutter to the ground.
Iron spikes shot out from where the papers landed, skewering the assassins simultaneously and pinning them together. Both went down in bloody heaps. The pain in Serefin’s head amplified and he pitched forward, barely catching himself before face-planting into the stones. He lasted there for a few tense seconds—he could vaguely hear someone’s voice but he couldn’t tell if it was Żaneta or Ostyia—before everything shuttered black around him.
* * *
This was worse than any hangover Serefin had ever experienced. And he always kept track of his hangovers and how badly they hurt. He had a list.
His head pounded. His mouth tasted like blood and was dry as a desert. When he opened his eyes, a vivid panic shot through him. He thought he had gone completely blind. Until he realized it was still dark outside.
Something rustled in the room and a candle lit. Żaneta set the candle by the bedside table before sitting down on the side of his bed.
“This is scandalous, Żaneta,” he mumbled, resting his head back against the pillows.
“Definitely more scandalous than the prince being attacked in his own palace gardens,” she agreed.
He lifted his hands and pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. “Are you sure they didn’t kill me?” he asked.
“Mostly.”
Her auburn curls hung loose around her shoulders. He found himself tracking the freckles that dusted her warm brown skin.
“Did any of them survive?” he asked.
She nodded. “The one with the burned face. Your handiwork?”
He tried to nod but it hurt too badly. “Yes.”
“A good spell,” she said. “We have him in the dungeons.”
“Does my father know what happened?” Serefin didn’t want to know the answer, but he had to ask.
“He does.”
Serefin groaned.
“I’m glad I wasn’t there when he was told,” she said.
Serefin needed to think, but the pounding in his head was making it difficult. There was no point in going back to sleep. He wasn’t sure he would be able to, anyway. He needed answers. He wanted to demand an explanation from his father; surely this was his doing. Yet his rational side knew this couldn’t be his father’s doing. Because it had failed. Gloriously.
“My father is going to blame the Kalyazi,” he mused.
“Was it not them?” Żaneta asked, standing up.
“I … don’t know.” The Kalyazi did not train incompetent assassins; his eye was a tribute to that. This could have been the work of the Crimson Vulture. Perhaps his father was behind the attack and she had shifted the pieces so incompetent assassins were sent instead to give him a better chance. He hated living with a black cloud of doom hovering over his steps, certain that his future was bleak but not having any clear answers.
“Would you fetch Kacper, please?” he asked.
Żaneta frowned. She hesitated, as if she wanted to argue, but then left. Serefin wondered what she was holding back.
Serefin let those thoughts fade when Kacper entered, a puzzled look on his face.
“Żaneta seemed upset,” Kacper said.
“I said nothing to upset her.”
Kacper let it drop. “A Vulture was sent to interrogate the remaining assassin. I assume we’ll be hearing of that by noon. In the meantime…”
Serefin worked himself to a sitting position. He stared blankly into the darkness at the opposite end of the room.
What information did he have? An attack on his life, a plan to find a queen for Tranavia, and questions with no answers. Why was his father sending thousands upon thousands of prisoners to the Salt Mines? Why was his father working so closely with the Vultures? To what end? Why now?
What is happening?
“Have you seen the current list of families participating in the Rawalyk?” Kacper asked.
“No, why?”
“It seems to be fluctuating,” he said. “Names of girls keep appearing then disappearing suddenly.”
“What do you mean?”
Kacper shook his head. “I’m not sure. I want to look into it, see if the girls are just getting nervous or if it’s something else.”
Serefin let out a breathless laugh. “We are so paranoid.” There was a beat of silence. “I need to talk to my mother,” he murmured.