“I am not yet queen. And as I was kept veiled and hidden, you could not have known. What is your name, soldier?”
“Jeppen, my lady.” He sounded on the verge of tears.
“You and your fellow soldiers will have my gratitude, Jeppen, if you always speak the truth of what happened here.” With her sandaled foot, she nudged her brother’s body. “We could leave this for the scavengers, but it would likely turn their stomachs. Instead you will take him directly to the alliance council, so they might see the wound in his back to corroborate your story. Do not take him first to Zhalen or Bazir, for my father and brother might decide to make another story of it, and you would not be long for this life.”
The soldier had gone deathly pale. “Yes, my lady.”
Maddek tensed when two soldiers clambered down from the carriage and approached the woman, but it was only to collect the body.
“Put it on one of the horses,” Maddek told them, and they paused, as if in confusion. Patiently he said, “Unharness the horses from that overheavy carriage and ride them. But leave one.”
The elegant creature was not sturdy enough to carry a Parsathean soldier for a full turn of the moon, but Nyset’s heir must only weigh a feather.
Her skinned and bloodless corpse would weigh even less.
The soldiers looked to Yvenne, who nodded. Hastily they began unharnessing the horses.
“Now, Jeppen—I suggest you take the advice my brother did not, and flee. Without me!” she said sharply when the soldier reached for her, as if to swing her up onto the horse behind him. “I stay with the Parsatheans willingly. Tell the council that, as well. Though they likely will not believe it, hold to that truth. And I will return for you and the others as queen, Jeppen.” Her voice softened now. “Tell them all that I will come. My father’s rule will end.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said thickly.
Her pale gaze returned to Maddek, but she still spoke to the soldier. “Go now. Directly to the council. Stop for nothing.”
Immediately they complied, with Cezan’s body draped over the back of the last horse. She did not turn to watch them leave. As the sound of their pounding hooves retreated down the hill, she tossed the jeweled dagger to the ground and stood with her arms dangling loosely in front of her, long blue sleeves concealing her bound and bloodied hands.
“I am yours to do with what you will, Ran Maddek,” she said.
What you will. That will was vengeance. But although Maddek still rode that purpose, his anger seemed unseated—completely thrown by this woman.
Nor was it only he. When Maddek glanced back, his warriors appeared in turns bemused and bewildered, looking at each other as if to confirm what they’d seen had indeed just happened before their eyes.
She waited silently.
His gaze upon her again, Maddek dismounted and approached her. “You throw yourself upon my mercy?”
“Do you have any?”
“No.” Not for her.
That seemed not to disturb her. She held out her bound hands. “Will you free me?”
“No.” So easily had she plunged a dagger into her brother’s back that Maddek would not soon trust those hands, bound or not.
“Perhaps for the best.” Her sudden grin revealed straight white teeth. “I am treacherous and foul and ugly.”
Treacherous, yes. Foul, he knew not. And though not ugly as her brother had claimed, she was a thin and sickly-looking thing, with a yellow tinge to her brown skin. Not just sallow but dull, as if never touched by the sun’s glow. Despite her natural color she was as pale as the children who lived beneath the shadow of Ephorn’s wall.
And those eyes. Maddek wanted to look away from her eerie, piercing gaze but could not. Both the desire and his inability irritated him.
She had no similar trouble, however. Easily she glanced away, turning toward the carriage and sweeping aside the curtain.
Maddek’s sword in her path stopped her from reaching inside.
“No threat lies within,” she told him. “Only a satchel that holds my wedding robes.”
“You will have no need for clothes.”
Her dark eyebrows arched, eyes widening. Her head tilted back as she gave him a searching look. “Perhaps I will not,” she finally said. “But these raiments have been passed through a line of Syssian queens. Should they fall into the hands of travelers who happen upon this carriage, and those travelers wear them, my father might recognize the robes and punish them for theft—or try to create a story in which I was set upon by bandits, and use it as an excuse to raze innocent homes and villages. Just as he used a false story to justify killing your father.”
Fierce elation gripped his heart. “A false story?”
Her pale gaze locked to his. “Your father did not touch me or any other woman within the house.”
“Tell the council.”
“To what purpose?” She gave the blade in front of her a significant glance. “Anything I say will be doubted. They will believe that you threatened my life and forced me to lie. Only one of Justice’s swords could confirm my truth—and when have you ever seen Chaliq’s judges in Ephorn? Can you imagine one in Muda’s court?”
No. Chaliq’s wandering judges did not often venture into Muda’s cities, because the entire world trembled when Law and Justice were in discord.
The world should be trembling now. It should tremble until his queen and king had been avenged.
And Maddek was finding his anger again.
Perhaps Yvenne saw it. Carefully stepping back from the carriage, she asked him, “You came for me, Ran Maddek. With what intention, if not marriage?”
Marriage to a woman who had lured his parents to their murders? Everything within him revolted at the thought.
“I have no intention,” he spat. “I will visit my wrath upon you.” Sheathing his sword, he stepped closer until his height forced her head back, her pale gaze never leaving his. “I would have my vengeance upon your father and brothers all, but on this day I will settle for you. My queen and king traveled to Syssia at your request. Is that true?”
On a deep breath, she inclined her head before meeting his eyes again.
Though her gaze did not waver, a tremor shook her when Maddek gripped her bound wrists and raised her fisted hands to his mouth. “Then perhaps I shall start by biting off the fingers that wrote the treacherous message.”
“And finish what my father began?”
That was not the response he expected. Frowning, he glanced at her hands as she unrolled her fists and spread her fingers.
Two were missing from her right hand—the first and second fingers, leaving only her thumb and two weakest fingers. The stumps appeared evenly matched, as if they’d been severed above the knuckle with a single blade.