Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

in fields where death and sorrow lie
she plants the seeds of life anew
beneath her watchful, steady eye
both foes and friends she will renew

- "The Shield," Verse 4

Adelaide disappears as soon as I take the pipe from her outstretched hand, dissipating into smoke just as she appeared. Audrin stops me before I take a hit—I'm ready to get out of here, but his hand curls around my wrist hard enough to hurt.

"What my wife said about our son." His voice is curt. "Tell anyone, and I'll see to it that your put to death without a trial."

What? Oh. That thing about Achille. "Sure," I say.

"Lucian is my firstborn. Madeline is mine as well. Contrary to popular opinion, I have two trueborn children."

"I believe you." I don't, but whatever—he's the king, and I'm not pushing this. "Can I ask you something?"

I want to know if Lucian really was Achille's, why he and Adelaide didn't just tell Killián that. Seems like the whole Killián-calling-Adelaide-a-whore-at-her-wedding situation could've been avoided if these royals just effing communicated.

"No," he says shortly. "This is not your place, and these are not your affairs."

Fair enough.

I raise the pipe to my lips.

###

Audrin and I were by the River of Time for almost two hours—it's dark by the time we return to the Lands of the Living. I'm too exhausted to enjoy the fireworks, so I head back to Jebah's room and get ready for bed. I've just gotten back from brushing my teeth and shaving when there's a knock on the door.

Killián stands on the threshold, his fist posed over the wood.

"Oh," I say. "Hi."

"May I come in?"

I stand back to let him. He sits on the vanity's stool, straddling it, and looks around the room. When his gaze lands on the empty shelves, my stomach drops.

"What happened to Yosif and his elites?" he demands.

I rub the back of my neck—my temples are aching. "Closet."

"You put Yosif the great, two titans, and seven of lore's most legendary elite guardsmen in the closet?" He looks astounded. "Ko, I told you not to touch them."

"I'll move them back."

His hands curl on the iron back of the vanity's stool, then open. He sighs.

"Never mind," he says. "There are more important matters to discuss—your blatant disregard for the bones of my ancestors will have to wait."

"What's up?" I ask.

"You're aware that my death duel with Jebah is scheduled for tomorrow?"

I nod.

"I'm catching the 0600 stronghorse train to Bathune. Will you be attending?"

"Of course," I say. "If I'm invited."

"All my elites are invited." He studies me. "What happened by the River of Time?"

I shift my weight from foot to foot. "I'm not sure if I should talk about it."

"You can tell me." His lips twitch into a frown. "Did Audrin get something out of you?"

"No." I exhale a long, shaky sigh. "Adelaide got my spirit and my memories to Brid Naya'il—that's the good news. The bad news is that my essence is still with someone else."

"Ah."

"That's it?"

"We need to resolve this." His face is expressionless, but something flickers in his eyes—I can't read the emotion. "Before my death duel, if possible. That means tonight."

"How?"

He rises. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"L'Angly's palazzo," he says, and he's out the door before I can ask any follow-up questions.

###

We park the two-door chaise at the bottom of the steps like we did yesterday morning. The sprawling structure of towering spires, intricate stone carvings, high towers, and looming arches looks downright menacing in the moonlight. The palazzo is illuminated by flickering torches and dim lanterns, casting long, dancing shadows along the stone walls. Stars reflect off the stained glass depiction of Lady Love, adding a cold, silvery glow to the masterpiece.

"Stay quiet and stick to the shadows," Killián murmurs—his hand is on my arm, and he guides me out of the carriage. "We need to get in and out without anyone noticing."

"How are you planning that?"

In answer, he reaches into the pocket of his leathers and wiggles a pipe in my direction.

We reach a side door—a servant's entrance—hidden discretely behind a thick curtain of ivy and shadowed behind imposing outer walls. A simple, heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron, marks the entrance. Killián stops and takes a hit. After a few moments, he opens the door, then starts muttering to someone—or something—I can't see or hear. We stand there for almost three minutes before he nods jerkily.

"Coast is clear," he says, barely a breath. "Let's move."

Inside, the corridor is narrow and dimly lit by wall sconces. The air is cool and carries the feint scent of herbs and cleaning agents. The stone walls are lined with unadorned doors, probably leading to storage rooms. At the end of the hallway we push through a curtain of hanging beads and find ourselves in a kitchen. Large wooden tables are piled high with ingredients, and the air is thick with the smell of roasting meats and baking bread. Copper pots and pans hang from hooks, gleaming in the firelight from the large stone hearth. There's not a servant or chef in sight.

"What did you do to them?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"My spirits advised them to take a much needed break—discretely, and without them even knowing they had company." His voice matches mine in tone. "In other words, mind magic. This way."

Exiting the kitchen, we pass through a storage room filled with barrels, crates, and supply shelves—knives, dishes, serving trays. The room is cluttered, and the only light comes from a single flickering lantern hanging above the ceiling. Killián walks to the far end of the room and tugs a tapestry of L'Angly, Mariette, and their three children to the side—behind it is a door.

"How did you know that was there?" I ask.

He stares at me, silent.

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"Right." I snap my fingers. "Spirits."

"Are you coming?"

The door is heavy—it's hard to push open. The hidden passage is narrow and dark, the walls made of rough stone. The stairs are worn from years of use, and cobwebs line the railings. The staircase winds up several floors, occasionally passing small landings with doors leading to other corridors. We stop at one, about three floors up— Killián takes another hit from his pipe—and we wait.

"Give me a moment for reconnaissance," he murmurs.

This time, he doesn't talk to himself—he just tilts his head to the side, as if he's listening to something. Every once in a while, he nods. At last he shakes his head.

"One more floor up."

"Got it." A few more flights of stairs and we arrive at an identical landing. Killián pushes open the door—we find ourselves in a magnificent hall lined with sconces holding torches. The wooden floorboards are colored with a velvety carpet. Murals line every inch of the walls—Ladies, titans, ancient battles, mythical creatures. In one, L'Angly stands between Mariette and Leclère, an arm around each of them and a playful smile on his face. Another depicts a skeletal Lady Death stroking a war horse, the rider trampled and contorted beneath the hooves. In a third, a dove breathes fire, and Lady Love warms her hands over the orange and yellow paint. There are so many of them that it's hard to take them in— Killián strides forward without looking to either side.

"Third door on the left," he says over his shoulder. "Thank Brayden for finding him."

"Staffmaster Brayden?" I jog to keep up. "The one who died by the metallite mines four years ago?"

"Good kid. Better soldier. Still keeps in touch."

When we get to the third door on the left-hand side of the corridor, Killián gestures for me to stop and places a hand to his lips. He puts his ear against the door and listens for a moment, then nods.

"Stay quiet." It's barely a breath. "Let me wake him."

I'm not going to complain about that.

Killián pulls two pins from his kitbag and bends one into an L. For the second, he bends only the tip, giving it a sharp hook. He inserts the L-shaped pin into the bottom of the keyhole, the hooked one a little higher. There's a slight click, then another, then a third. At last he twists the L-shaped pin, then turns the handle. The door creaks open—he freezes, then opens it more carefully. The room we enter is dark as the abyss—curtains glow faintly with moonlight, but the shades are drawn. The air stinks of incense. I can't see anything, not even Killián.

A match strikes. A candle lights. It illuminates Leómadura's face—he's sitting up in a bed pressed into the far corner of the room. Killián moves faster than a snake—one second he's half a step in front of me, and the next he's straddling Leómadura, pressing his wrists into the mattress. The candle clatters to the ground—I scoop it up before the rug catches fire. Somehow the flame doesn't go out. I stand over them with it, a little awkwardly. Leómadura opens his mouth, as if to yell— Killián snatches a handkerchief from his kitbag and shoves the crumpled wad between his lips. Leómadura writhes, tries to spit it out— Killián has one hand on both his wrists, which are pinned above his head. The other presses the cloth further into his mouth. Leómadura chokes.

"Ko." Killián's voice is strained. "There's rope in my kitbag."

Killián rolls him over—not gently. I set the candle down on his bedside table so I can work. We bind his hands behind his back, secure the gag with rope, tie his feet. Killián brings his elbow down hard on the back of Leómadura's head—he stops struggling, goes limp. Only then does Killián rise, and he lugs Leómadura over his broad shoulders as if the man weighs no more than a sack of flour. He's not a small man, so it looks terribly uncomfortable—still, Killián's taller.

"Let's go." His voice is short. "Quickly. Quietly. Back through the servant's passage."

We make our way back to the door at the end of the hallway, encountering no one. It takes us a while to reach the storage room, however— Killián's moving slowly down the steps—and by the time we do, there's noise in the kitchen beyond the curtain. A knife chopping, a coalpot being dragged. Clearly the chefs are back from their break. Killián and I freeze, look at each other in the dim torchlight. Leómadura, who's hanging over Killián's shoulders like a bound bluedeer, moans softly.

The chopping stops. "What was that?" someone asks.

"My back giving out," says another voice. "Help me with this thing, will you?"

Killián lets Leómadura sag to the floor. He's coming back to consciousness—his eyes blink open, and although his gaze is bleary, he stares at me with something akin to hatred in his eyes. Maybe a bit of fear, too—now isn't that a reversal? There's no time to gloat, no time to lord his current state as captive over him. Even if I were that sort of person, which I'm not, there are people in the next room over.

"Watch him," Killián murmurs, and then he struts through the curtain as if he owns L'Angly's palazzo.

I have no idea what happens on the other side of the curtain—no one speaks. Killián returns a few moments later and nods in my direction.

"All clear," he says, and heaves Leómadura back over his shoulder.

When I pass through the curtain, I see two individuals curled up on the floor. Both are wearing pressed red uniforms—one is using an unlit coalpot like a pillow.

"What the crap?" I say, forgetting to keep my voice quiet. "Did you kill them?"

"Of course not." Killián sounds annoyed. "They're resting."

"You just…put them to sleep?" I demand. "You can do that?"

One of them stirs. Killián gives me a sharp look, and we quickly proceed through the kitchen without further comment. When we're back outside, Leómadura makes a couple noises like he's trying to scream through the gag. Killián stops walking.

Leómadura falls silent.

We toss him in the back of the carriage, lock the doors from the outside, and slide onto the coach bench. Killián jerks the reins, and the horses take off. I glance over my shoulder—several windows in L'Angly's palazzo are illuminated by a glowing golden light. If someone is staring outside, they could see our retreat. Hopefully the dark provides cover, but it's a clear night with a crescent moon and a sprinkle of stars.

Hopefully we won't be so unlucky as to be spotted.

We glide over a well-manicured lawn until we get to the gates, and then we turn right onto Royal Road. Gravel and grass gives way to cobblestones—the carriage rocks as we make the turn. Wide and paved, bordered by tall trees that form a shady canopy overhead, moonlight filters onto the ground before us in intricate patterns.

"Where are we taking him?" I ask quietly. "Back to Yosif's palazzo?"

"The forest." Killián keeps his gaze on the stallions pulling the carriage. "This requires no audience."

"What are we going to do to him?"

I'm nervous despite myself—I've never done anything like this before in my life. Killián, on the other hand, seems calm—his shoulders are relaxed, and there are no creases on his brow. How often has he abducted people from their beds and taken them to the effing forest?

"Calm down," Killián says. "You have nothing to fear."

"Aren't you worried this is going to come out the next time you play the mirror game?"

"Not particularly."

"Why not?"

He takes a long time to answer. Finally he says, "A good general culls."

"You're going to kill him?" My heart stops in my chest. Sure, I want Leómadura dead—I hate the guy—but dragging him from his chambers and taking him to the forest for an execution isn't what I signed up for. It's probably illegal, firstly, and even if it's not—who does that?

"Of course I'm not going to kill him." He's not smiling, but there's amusement in his voice. "You're going to do it."

I stop moving, stop breathing. When my breath comes back, it's a deep, shuddering sigh.

I've killed people before. Of course I have. On the frontline, I must've taken out at least seven Xobrites. I remember hot, sticky blood coating my hands and chest, remember the screams and battle cries, remember plunging my sword through skin and bone. This feels different, somehow. Firstly, because he was my lanista—not to mention a citizen of L'Anglimar, not to mention an effing royal. Secondly, because he's tied up—there's no honor in that.

Thirdly, because he has my soul. My essence. What could possibly motivate him to give it back if he knows his death is certain? Does Killián have a plan here? I sincerely hope he isn't winging it.

I'm not sure how long we sit in silence while I digest that last declaration. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. We turn right off Royal Road and pass the looming shadows of Le Château du Roi Dieu. Majestic and imposing even in the dark, its tall spires are silhouetted against the night sky. The main complex is quiet, with only a few lit windows hinting at life inside. Cobblestones return to grass—we make a direct line for the forest. Killián parks directly in front of the tree line, then turns to face me.

"If you can't, I will," he says—it sounds like the words are coming with great difficulty. "I killed my first when I was about your age. A little younger. A woman—my father made me. I…struggled with it. For a long time—at least until my first battle. It can be hard, killing someone in cold blood. It's nothing like the battlefield, nothing. Like I said, if you can't…"

"You'd do that?" I ask quietly. "You'd really kill your friend?"

"Not my friend." His expression is impassive. "Leó dies tonight, one way or another."

"They're going to realize he's missing."

"We left no signs of a struggle. They'll think he's fled the First Circuit."

"All his stuff is still there."

"Men have run from their mistakes carrying less."

"They'll know it was us."

"They have no way of proving that," Killián says. "Worst case scenario, it comes out in the mirror game—if that happens, I'll claim Yosif's pardon. Generals cull. If you do it, you'll be protected—you're a soldier following orders."

"I'll be protected for murder, but not deserting the church of Loss?"

"Have you faced any repercussions for that?"

"I'll do it," I say with confidence I don't feel—I'd do anything he asked while he's looking at me like that, impassive and imposing. There's not a shred of empathy on his face, no sign that he's second guessing this decision. He surveys me—I wish he'd show emotion, anything, something—but he doesn't. At last, he nods.

"Let's go," he says.