Tempest blinked slowly. She’d never considered that her uncles might have a plan of their own. How was she so blind? Over the past few months, in her haste to deem them traitors and monsters, she had underestimated their abilities as Hounds. Then again, she’d had more reason to believe them loyal to the Crown than not.
She ran a hand over her face and placed her head in her hands. For every layer she peeled back, more were revealed. The Hounds were essentially prisoners in gilded cages that were afforded status and luxury beyond what most people in the kingdom could hope for. They were respected. They were loved. They were feared. Yet they were prisoners nonetheless, stripped of their own choices and freewill.
Hounds work from the shadows. Darkness is our ally.
Just like the Jester. Like the Dark Court.
Then the similarity of what the Hounds and rebels were both trying to accomplish sparked a dangerous idea. If both sides were working in the shadows, then why not work with the shadow puppeteer himself? While she didn’t want to put her uncles in more danger than they were already in, they were all dancing on the edge of a sword already. Hell, they’d been putting their lives on the line every day for only God knew how long.
You are the link between the Dark Court and the Hounds. Damn well use it.
“What would you say if I told you that I could provide you with more people? Ones that would escape the king’s notice.”
Madrid cocked his head, his gray eyes scanning her face. “I would say that you’ve been busy. Just what are you getting at, Tempest?” The tone of his voice suggested very much that he did not like what he thought she was about to say.
She took a deep breath. “What if I said I could put you in touch with the rebellion. With… the Jester?” Tempest waited a moment for her words to sink in. No one moved, or even seemed to blink.
“He’s alive?” Madrid said softly.
“There’s always someone to take his place in the Dark Court,” she said evasively.
“Ties to the Jester.” Maxim chuckled. “You’ve been busy, lass.”
“Not much of a choice.”
Dima rolled his neck. “How is it that you managed to get yourself tangled up with the Dark Court when we’ve made sure you were kept away from all this while growing up? You’re a bloody magnet for disaster.”
An impish smile came to her face at the exasperation in her uncle’s tone. “The fact that you raised me should be answer enough.”
“You think they will work with us?” Aleks asked, turning to Madrid.
The stoic man studied Tempest, and she straightened under his scrutiny. “I think there will be rifts, but it could be possible,” Madrid said.
Her attention turned to Aleks. “The drugs stop now.”
He held her gaze. “I’ve long since stopped brewing them. Once my discovery was made, the king seized my work and sent it out to his agents. It’s no longer in my control.”
Did Pyre know? “I can’t guarantee anything from the Jester.”
Maxim smirked. “We raised you better than that. No daughter of ours will take no for an answer. This isn’t just about Dotae, but Heimserya as a whole.” Her uncle eyed Madrid. “What say you?”
“I still think she should leave.” Madrid started toward Tempest, reaching out a hand before deciding against touching her. “But I don’t think that’s in the cards for you, is it?”
“I won’t abandon those in need.”
Madrid shocked her by smiling slightly. “Then, it seems, the choice is made.” He bowed his head and dropped to his knee.
Her mouth gaped as her uncles followed suit.
“We pledged ourselves to the Crown. My lady, soon you will take up the mantel. Our swords are yours.” The air rushed from her lungs as Madrid lifted his head. “Welcome to war, daughter of ours.”
Thirty-Two
Tempest
It was amazing that one conversation could change her life.
Tempest gazed blankly at the tavern room the servant had led her to, her mind a whirl. Time was short until the guard hunted her down and escorted her back to the palace. It was the only rational decision to combine her uncles’ forces with those of the Dark Court, but every time she thought of Pyre, all she could see was the empty gaze of the crown prince. The Jester had done that, and he’d used her to do it. She held her palms up and stared at the dried blood on her hands. Was she any better?
Unable to stand one more minute in her clothing, she hustled to the warm bath steaming near the fireplace. Tempest tore her clothing from her body and tossed the soiled items in the fire. She submerged herself in the bath and viciously scrubbed her skin until it hurt. The clear water turned musky and rust colored. Nausea swamped her again, and she launched from the tub, flinging water everywhere. Shivering and dry heaving, she wrapped herself in a towel and roughly dried her body. Her skin pebbled as she yanked on the rough clothing the servant had left her, the coarse fabric scratching as she adjusted her garments. She took one last look at the room, then pulled her cloak over her shoulders, and tucked her hair away beneath the hood, thankful that the cloak was black, so the blood didn’t show.
Tempest tossed a small bag of coins onto the unused bed that Maxim had left her and exited the inn room on silent feet. She ghosted down the stairs and slipped past the kitchen without seeing a single person. Her breath fogged in the cold air, and she examined the alley and street. The fake drunkards were gone. Was that a good sign or bad?
Just to be careful, she slunk toward the slums, making sure to loop and weave through the shanties, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. With furtive eyes and keen ears, she took in the pale faces and anxious, fractured conversations of those around her. Talk of war was thick in the air, and nobody liked what that meant. The people were scared. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Men were drinking more. They all feared what the future would bring. King Destin’s speech may have riled up the upper class—the ones important enough to have been within the palace court to hear it—but those that would actually fight, didn’t know what this meant for them and their families. They would be the ones sacrificed on the battlefield if Tempest didn’t figure out a solution.
Kill the king. That’s your solution.
Ensuring none of her periwinkle hair was visible beneath her hood, she instinctively quickened her pace. When she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her left eye, her fears were confirmed: she had been spotted.
For a moment, she veered right toward the city gates on instinct, then ground her heel into the gravel beneath her and began climbing the closest building. The damaged wall was still a safer bet despite the tail.
With a glance down below her, she saw three guards—no longer trying to hide their presence—were pursuing her. She bolted across the ramshackle roof and leapt for the next one, feet clattering across tiles, tin, and loose wooden planks. She was starkly reminded of another time she had navigated across roofs in such a manner—fleeing Pyre’s gang only two months prior. Her shoulder had been damaged from her fight with the lion, and she’d hurt her leg during the pursuit, but she had still made it pretty far before she’d been caught. She was even stronger now.