Yes, it’s different between us. It always has been, Kaden, and if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve always known it too.…
We both care for Venda and Morrighan.… Don’t underestimate the bond we share. Great kingdoms have been built on far less.
Maybe with Lia, less could be more, the greater purpose my mother had always hoped for.
Maybe less could be enough.
* * *
The road to the manor was thicker with trees than I remembered. Branches hung overhead like a twisted-fingered canopy. For the first time, I wondered if I’d misremembered the way.
I couldn’t imagine the grand and powerful Lord Roché living down this unassuming, remote lane. I had never been back. The beggar’s threats to a child had lodged somewhere in my skull, he will drown you in a bucket. Even once I was Venda’s Assassin, the one the rest of the Rahtan had feared, the memory of that threat could still make my heart beat faster. It still did, every scar resurfacing as if I were eight years old again. Would killing him change that? I’d always thought it would. Maybe today I would find out.
And then I saw it, a glimpse of the white stone through the trees. I hadn’t forgotten the way. As I drew closer, I saw that the grounds had fallen into disarray. The green clipped lawns were only stubble and dirt now, and the once-sculpted shrubs were overgrown and choked with vines. The sprawling manor, set far back from the road, looked unkempt and abandoned, but I spotted a thin trail of smoke rising from one of its five chimneys. Someone was there.
I circled around so no one would see me, and first I went to the cottage I had shared with my mother. It was once white too, but most of the paint had flaked away long ago. There was no doubt that it was uninhabited. The same vines that choked the shrubs crept over the porch and front window. I tied up my horse, and the warped door gave way under my shoulder. When I walked inside, it seemed smaller than I remembered. The furniture was all gone, probably sold to beggars too, disposable things just like me. The cottage was simply a dusty hull now that held no trace of my mother or the life I had when I was loved. I looked at the empty hearth, the empty mantel above it, the empty room that used to hold my bed, the emptiness that pervaded it all. I spun and walked out. I needed fresh air.
I leaned on the porch rail, staring at the quiet manor, the scent of jasmine strong in my memory. I pictured him sitting inside, stiff-backed in a chair, his trousers neatly pressed, a bucket of water at his side. Waiting. I couldn’t be drowned anymore. I stepped off the porch and walked to the eastern part of the estate, remaining out of sight. There was one place where I knew I would find my mother. Only the gravedigger and my father had been present when we buried her. Not even my half brothers, whom she had tutored and treated kindly, bothered to come and say a few last words. No marker had been made for her grave, so I had found the heaviest stones I could carry and laid them like a blanket atop the mounded dirt, fitting them together until my father told me to stop.
I searched for the mound of stones now, but it was gone too. There was nothing to mark where she lay in the earth—but there were other graves not far away—two of which had large chiseled headstones. I pulled away the vines, hoping I had forgotten where she lay and that one of these was for her. Neither was. One was for my eldest brother. He had died only a few weeks after I left. My stepmother, if I could even call her that, had died a month later. An accident? A fever?
I looked back at the house and the smoke curling from the chimney. Was it possible that my father was a sickly broken man now? That would explain the state of the grounds he had once taken so much pride in. My other half brother would be twenty-two now, strong and able to fight back—but he probably wouldn’t recognize me after all these years. I loosened the strap on my scabbard, feeling the position of my knife at my side. It was what the Komizar had always dangled in front of me—justice—and one day I would be the one to deliver it. I walked toward the house and knocked on the door.
I heard shuffling inside, something slamming, a call to someone and a curse, and then finally the door swung open. I recognized her even though her hair had gone white and she was twice the size she had once been. It was the manor housekeeper. I had remembered her as pinched and made of angles and sharp knuckles that had frequently rapped my head. Now she was round and ample. A large iron pot dangled from her hand.
She squinted at me. “Yaaap?”
The sound of her voice crawled over my skin. That hadn’t changed. “I’m here to see Lord Roché.”
She laughed. “Here? What rock have you been hiding under? He hasn’t been here in years. Not more than in passing now that he has his big important job.”
Gone? For years? It didn’t seem possible. My memory of him lording over the estate and county was frozen here and in all my imaginings since.
“What job would that be?” I asked.
She hissed through her teeth like I was an oblivious jackass.
“He’s at the citadelle working for the king. One of those fancy cabinet jobs. Got no need for this place nomore. Barely tosses me coin to keep it up. Shame how it looks now.”
He’s in Civica? Part of the king’s cabinet?
“Wait a minute,” the housekeeper said, leaning closer and wagging her finger at me. Disbelief shone in her eyes. “I know who you are. You’re that bastard boy.” In an instant, her disinterest flamed to hatred. Her finger poked my chest, but my head was still reeling with this new information. My father was in Civica? A far more deadly thought gripped me. Did the Komizar know? Had he guessed who my father was—was this why he kept his sources so closely held? Had he been working with the man I sought to destroy all along?
I turned to leave, but the housekeeper grabbed my arm. “You and your gift!” she snarled. “You said the mistress would die a horrible death, and she did. You miserable little beast—”
I heard a noise behind me and spun toward it drawing my knife at the same time, but then felt an explosion across the back of my head and the world tumbled as I fell forward.
* * *
When I woke, I was perched over the well. Two men held me. A cord cut into my hands, which were tied behind my back. The housekeeper grinned. “This is where the boy died,” she said, “but you know that, don’t you? Drowned. Someone pushed him in. We know it was you. You always hated him. Jealous you were. Mistress went crazy, dying slowly day by day, and finally slit her wrists a month later. A slow, horrible death, just like you predicted. Seeing her firstborn pulled from a well all clammy and bloated was the worst thing that could have happened to her. Nothing was the same around here after that. Not for any of us. Now it’s your turn, boy.”
The world swam in front of me. I guessed that instead of her knuckles, this time her pot had met my skull. She nodded to the men holding me. It was a deep well. Once I was thrown down, there would be no climbing out. The men lifted me under my arms, but my legs were still free. I shook off the dizziness and struck out at them both almost simultaneously. One of my boots shattered a kneecap, and I jammed the other man in the groin.When he doubled over, my knee cracked his neck. I rolled away, grabbing my knife from the dead man’s side and sliced the cord behind my back. The man with the crushed knee screamed in pain but limped forward, thrashing at me with his machete. With one swipe of my blade, his throat lay open and he fell dead next to the other man. The housekeeper stared at me, horrified, and ran toward the house.
My head throbbed, and I bent over, trying to get my bearings, the world still spinning, then I ran too. I didn’t know how long I’d been out. I stumbled to my horse, still tied behind the cottage, pain splitting my head in two, blood running down my neck, my back wet and sticky, and I rode, hoping Lia hadn’t left without me, hoping I wouldn’t pass out before I reached her. I knew at least one more traitor in the Morrighese cabinet, because if anyone had no concept of loyalty, it was my father.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Drizzle fell lightly. I pulled my cloak closer. The wind circled, gusted, a hiss to its voice. Mist stung my cheeks with a thousand warning whispers. This was either the beginning or the end.