Kings and Assassins (48 page)

The dead Antyrrian soldiers jerked to their feet, skin gleaming like wet fish scales, their weapons held in tightening grips. One of them saluted Janus, his hand held up, a ghostly eye surfacing in the dead man's palm for a moment.

Trust Psyke
, Janus thought. How, when he didn't even know what she was anymore? Ani's motives were ugly and violent but comprehensible, built out of the depths of men's souls. Haith, on the other hand, was as enigmatic as the face He hid beneath His hood.

Adiran swung round, shrieking words that burned through the air, ate away at the ghost fog that Psyke hastily drew about her. Janus and Ivor dropped as one, shielded their ears at the sound of the language of the gods.

“I am immune to death,” Psyke said. “Can your avatar say the same? The boy is fragile, mortal, and unblooded.” Despite her brave
words, Janus noticed the fog about her thinning, as if the dead were being destroyed or dispersed.

“Not for long,” Adiran said. He tore into the dead soldiers with skill born only of savagery and borrowed hate.

The assassin inserted herself into the fray, still attempting to save Ivor, when it became evident that the corpse soldiers could not hold Adiran back. Indeed, Adiran's hesitance faded, as if they granted him the practice he had sorely needed, that Black-Winged Ani needed to learn what the boy prince was capable of.

Dodging a strike, the assassin danced away, turning Adiran from his path toward Ivor. The boy checked himself almost immediately, and the assassin shouted. “Boy! Ivor spoke nothing less than the truth. If you wish to strike down your father's murderer, you must strike me.”

Adiran darted toward Ivor. Janus intercepted the boy, Ivor still sheltering behind him, cursing himself even as he did. His own death was no part of the plan, but Ivor—

Janus shuddered. If Ivor died, Antyre would war. If Janus died… if Psyke could stop Adiran … bitter as it was, Antyre might survive without him. But would it want to? Was Haith any better as a ruling god than Ani?

Janus ducked Adiran's first angry slash—a boyish flailing, instead of the more focused destruction he had turned on the guards. Ivor pushed Janus forward, nearly doing the work for Adiran. Janus abruptly found himself besieged on two sides.

“Bastard,” Janus hissed.

Ivor said, “Survival first.” He grinned a wide, wild thing, seized Janus by the shoulders, and hurled him into Adiran's blade.

Janus groaned; the blade tip bit in, just above his hip, shallow but painful. Adiran yanked the sword back, let Janus stumble out of the way.

The assassin pushed herself back into the fight. Janus fell to his knees, clutched the wound, the blood warm between his fingers. He took a few ragged breaths, trying to gain the energy to stand, to pick up his blade again.

Psyke knelt beside him, her fingers cold on his hands. “Rest a moment,” she said.

“Rest too long and I'll be dead,” he grated. “If Adiran doesn't kill me, Ivor will.”

“No,” she said. “I won't allow it.”

“If you have the ability to prevent it, I wish you would, or are you waiting for a more threatening wound—”

“Hush,” she said. She laid a cold hand over his lips; in the fog behind her, Janus thought he saw Aris looming toward him and flinched.

“I shot him and he didn't fall,” the assassin said. “I gutted him, and watched his blood spread over the floor.”

Adiran's face crumpled, a small, bloody fist came up and knuckled at one eye, smearing tears across his skin, but his other eye stayed fixed on Ivor.

The assassin said, “So
you
won't look at me, boy? Will
Ani
?” Her voice cracked; her hands shook. She cast a quick look over her shoulder at Ivor, and her resolve firmed. “I am more an enemy to you than you know. I killed your father, yes, but first—Have you truly forgotten me, Ani? When you sought me so assiduously? Killed my parents, my village, everyone around me, until I gave up my name. Surely you remember me…. Maledicte put out my eye on your behest.”

Adiran froze, the feathers in his hair fluffing outward like a startled raven's. Ivor slipped farther along the dock, his eye on the dinghy that bobbed along the brass gates.

The assassin shook, the blade held out before her inscribing looping arcs, translating her fear.

“Your name,” Adiran demanded.

Janus's breath pained him; he watched the assassin lure Ani closer, goad Her into adding another target, and wondered what this would gain them. The assassin would die, but Adiran's vow had been shaped by the guards he had overheard: He'd sworn vengeance on Ivor Grigorian.

Hopeless
, he thought, found he'd whispered it aloud. He couldn't defend Ivor from a god, even were he willing to die for it.

“Not hopeless, not yet,” Psyke murmured. Her hands on his shoulder tightened nearly to the point of pain. Her lips moved in what he thought was prayer; whispers of it touched his ear, pulses of warm breath and the soft aspiration of Haith's name. The ghosts swirled about her, brushing over Janus's skin. He felt the effort they were putting forth, and knew, whatever it was they were attempting to do at her command, they were failing….

“Not enough,” Psyke said. Her eyes were tragic. “How can it not be enough? When the dead line the streets? When I hold the king in my grasp? How many more deaths do I need to command You?”

The assassin backed away, calculation and terror vying in her face; her lips were bloodless, her eye fever bright.

Adiran followed in a bird hop, the blade led before him like a beak.

“Your name,” he demanded.

“Nadiyeh,”
she said. “Nadiyeh—”

The name meant nothing to Janus, but Adiran's small form went still so quickly it left a tangible vibration in the air. Janus swallowed hard, struck by the taut lines of the boy's body. There were moments when he saw beyond position and rank, looked beyond a young prince and recognized kin. So it was that he recognized what froze Adiran, knew what it felt like when blood turned acid with rage and breath strangled itself in his throat.

Nadiyeh whimpered low, a sound stifled by an animal desire to be unheard. Soft as it was, the sound carried, amplified by Ani's desire to hear it. Adiran's lips curved in a fashion that had nothing of boy in it and everything of an unexpected satisfaction. Perhaps not a new addition to Her roster of vengeance, but an escaped one, reclaimed.

Nadiyeh hurled herself toward the water, as if she thought such shallow depths could protect her from Ani's beak and wings. Adiran lunged; his blade pierced her skirt and leg, pinned her in place.

The assassin screamed, her voice rising high and thin; she grasped at the blade through her thigh, clawed her way up it, hands going bloody, to seize Adiran's tightly straining wrists. “Ivor, flee!”

Adiran yanked away, the sword slipping from her leg, from her hands. Blood spurted, washed the docks.

Psyke flew from Janus's side, tried to intercede with Ani, but she was countered by Adiran, moving as quickly and far more violently Psyke's skin striped itself red in places, as if Ani's talons had made themselves felt. Psyke healed, the wounds sealing shut, leaving paler stripes on her fair skin.

“Countess,” the assassin said. “Countess.” But her voice was weak with pain; her hands pressed tight to the gash in her leg were unequal to the task.

Janus staggered toward her, urged on by the fogs, all whispering,
Trust Psyke
. He didn't know what Psyke had planned, but the assassin was part of it. Though it galled him to succor the assassin who might have cost him his throne, she was better left alive until he knew why Psyke had brought her here.

He took off his belt, rolled the assassin's blood-sodden skirt higher, and turned the belt into a tourniquet. She grasped at his shoulders, leaving her blood staining against his, and said, “The countess must hold to her bargain….”

“With Haith?” Janus asked. Panic seared him. What could Haith ask of Psyke, but death and more death?

“With
me,”
she said.

Adiran, flustered and frustrated, all his sallies against Psyke stymied, turned back to his original goal: Ivor.

Janus panted, panicked, wondering where in hell Rue and the rest of the guards were; a glance back gave him an answer. The city burned; streamers of smoke clogged the night sky, billowing gray-black thunderheads that hung heavily overhead.

Ivor's saboteurs, taking advantage of the chaos Ivor had made at the palace. Janus rose, wanting badly to get to Ivor before Adiran did, to exact his own vengeance on the man who had dared to burn his city. The stab of pain in his side, the assassin's clutch at his leg, held him back.

Ivor had taken advantage of the lull in Adiran's attention to slip down one of the piers, attempting to get to the dinghy.

Adiran halved the distance in a single flurry of movement, and the assassin groaned beneath Janus's hands. She forced herself upright,
took a labored breath; blood tinged her teeth, her lips, found a final strength.

Nadiyeh said, “Is a boy's desire for vengeance greater than yours, O great one? And a boy's mistaken desire at that? Or do you forget that I slaughtered the king….”

Adiran shuddered, two desires manifesting in him at once, two conflicting hungers for blood. Ani's insult, and his vengeance. His shirt tented, a ripple against the darkness, wings straining beneath.

Psyke moved to interfere, and Nadiyeh said, “Countess, your answer is
one
. One more death. But remember my bargain…. If you cheat me, I'll turn your commands to dust in your mouth.”

Adiran chose, lunged toward Nadiyeh, and she rose to meet him. She stepped into the blade, letting the sword press home, easing its way in beyond the sheltering ribs. She clutched the blade, pulled herself along it, and made a tiny sound that could have been a whimper or a laugh, a sob or a cry of triumph.

“Now,” she whispered.
Now
, and her voice spun into nothingness as her eyes closed, as she pulled the blade downward with her dying weight. Silence rang on the pier, the silent pleasure of Ani's gloating, the weight of the compact between Herself and Adiran snapping into place. Whether Evan lived or died, Adiran's course was set, Ani's chosen victim used to fuel Adiran's quest for vengeance.

Janus felt defeat roll over him like the tide; his city burned, and it would burn more once Grigor learned of Ivor's death.

Adiran licked the blade tip, tasting the death he had dealt, and smiled when he found it palatable. He raised his head, and said, “Now, Ivor.” The voice was a terrible blend, the rasp and rattle of the god overlaid on Adiran's childish sweetness. Janus knew he should rise, knew he had to do something to prevent Ivor's death. If Ivor died, they lost Antyre, and more, they lost Adiran—Ani was a harsh intrusion into any mortal host. How much worse would it be for a child, mostly mindless to begin with?

Janus staggered to his feet, thinking at least, if he killed Ivor instead of Adiran, the compact would hold; Adiran could be used to protect the country. As he had used Maledicte.

Ivor had found a boat hook and was trying to snag the dinghy. Now he dropped it hastily and took up his blade again, facing Janus, facing Adiran.

Psyke took a deep breath and said, “Haith, I summon you.” It was nearly conversational, save for the waver in her voice, that fragile uncertainty.

A shadow emanated from the earth, flowing through the fog like a serpent and rose to stand three times as tall as Psyke. He inclined His head toward her, waiting patiently as only stone could wait.

Give me your command, and I will obey
.

“I command you,” Psyke said, her voice gaining strength. “By your people that I hold to me, I command you to do my bidding.”

Haith fell to his knees before her, His hood falling forward and shadowing even more of His face. “Command Me as you will, Lady of Redoubt. Name your victory.”

Janus cringed, his hands flying to his ears, but where Ani's voice was glass shard ruin to Her hearers, Haith's was the quiet whisper of a last sigh before death.

Adiran's feathers bristled; his eyes burned blackly, and talons now tipped his fingers, clicked against each other around the steel sword hilt. “Begone, Brother Worm. Crawling
thing.”

Haith's attention never veered from Psyke. Her hands trembled; her eyes tore themselves from the kneeling god and found Ivor.

Janus's own hands were knotting, tacky with his blood and Nadiyeh's, wondering what Psyke intended. If she set the god on Ivor … If she set Him on Adiran …

There was no chance for victory that Janus saw.

Psyke's eyes flared blue; her voice rang out: “Haith, rid us of Black-Winged Ani!”

Ani shrieked outrage; Haith's head rose, His hood fell back, revealing furrowed scale and twisting horn. Psyke's gaze never faltered. “Backed by the dead, I command You.”

Haith rose, stiff now where He had been fluid before, like a man gone old before his time with a sudden shock. “We are connected,” He said, “kindred all…. Kill one of Us, and the others tumble into the grave.”

Psyke said, “We have no need for gods.”

Haith exhaled the scent of incense, old woods and leaf rot, of the cold that came on a first winter morning. “As you will—”

Adiran's body shuddered, swelled, burst into strange flesh, becoming a creature of multiple talon-tipped wings, with a beak grown long, curled, and sharp edged. Black-Winged Ani birthed god's flesh out of mortal clay, and aimed Her rage at Psyke.

Psyke never quailed, trusting Haith, trusting that her command would be obeyed. Janus's belly clenched; if Haith dallied, went reluctantly to Psyke's command, Ani would free Him of the need to do so.

But Haith's shadow enveloped Black-Winged Ani, dragged Her screeching into the stone, pinning Her wings, and holding Her back.

“Brother!” Ani screamed.

Janus fell to his knees, the sound echoing in his head, savaging tissue in its path. His face was wet; his vision red tinged, and all his senses were overlaid by blood. Distantly, he saw Ivor curled on the dock.

Haith hissed, tightened His shadow about Her, like a coiling serpent. His hands fastened claws into Her wings, piercing the membranes, spilling feathers along the docks, turning the ocean waters black with sodden feathers and red with blood. Janus spared a moment to mourn Adiran, trapped beneath Her skin, and Haith's eyes turned toward him, green as grass and slitted.