The Queen Underneath Page 9

  “What are you doing here?” Tollan asked.

  “The temple’s surrounded by burning brambles,” Elam said, eyes downcast. “And so is your lovely palace. The Guild is falling, and … my place is with Gemma and …” He trailed off.

  For a moment, Tollan couldn’t breathe. The palace is burning?

  Wince grunted. “We appear to have come to a similar conclusion. We were actually hoping we could find Gemma and take advantage of her hospitality.”

  Elam eyed them, his smile growing broader. “So, you gentleman are pissing yourselves, then, eh?”

  Wince laughed. “I believe that is a fairly accurate description of our current state, yes.”

  “Well, then,” Elam said, turning his back on them and pointing into the distance, “You are in luck. I happen to know exactly where Gemma will go once she’s found Devery.”

  Something in his tone brought to mind the ancient pain that Tollan had so recently heard in Wince’s words—“I have to find it.”

  But then the prayer keeper smiled over his shoulder at them. “So what do you make of what’s going on in Yigris, tonight?”

  As they walked, Wince told Elam about the mage marks on the buildings and the mark on Tollan’s back. They stopped at a corner house, located the mark, and showed Elam what they meant.

  He stared at the mark, brow furrowed in concentration. Then he turned to Tollan. “Your Grace,” he said, “I’m afraid that you are well and truly pricked. If I were you, I might consider a fast ship to Far Coast and a new name.”

  “That’s what I said!” Wince laughed, but no one joined him.

  “Can you take me to Gemma?” Tollan asked. Wince didn’t like the tone of his voice. Something about it brought Tollan’s father to mind.

  The prayer keeper nodded. “I believe so, Your Grace.”

  Tollan stood straighter, and despite his stained rags, he thrust a measure of confidence into his words that surprised Wince. “And she, as Queen of Under, can command the Ain? Is that correct?”

  Elam inhaled sharply through his nostrils. He nodded slowly. “She can, yes, but …”

  “There is no ‘but’,” Tollan snapped. “She has to do what’s best for Yigris! What if I commanded her?”

  Jovial laughter erupted from the slender prayer keeper. “You don’t know Gemma very well, Your Grace, if you think that line of reasoning is going to work. Your Yigris is a different Yigris than hers, and you’re going to have to make her see the benefit of ordering her people to help you. You’re going to have to approach this with some humility, if you don’t mind me saying so, Your Grace. Commanding her might be a good way to get your throat slit, but that’s probably not the outcome you’re looking for.”

  Wince watched all the steel go out of his friend’s spine as Tollan said, “Do you think she would—is she really capable of that?”

  It was difficult for Wince to watch his best friend, the prickling king, shrivel under the gaze of a trumped-up whore, no matter how genial Brother Elam seemed to be.

  “Oh, she’s capable,” Elam said, patting Tollan on the arm. “But I’m more worried about Devery. He’s got to be on edge, with Fin and Melnora, and—” he gestured back toward the fires. “He is not a man that I recommend trifling with. He has a good heart, and he’s saved my life on more than one occasion, but he’s a killer, and a prickling good one at that.”

  Wince said wistfully, “Maybe he’s already dead, and we won’t have to worry about it.”

  In one instant Brother Elam had his arm pressed against Tollan’s back, and in the next, his knife was pressed to Wince’s throat.

  “I will thank you kindly not to speak such things about my friends, again, Master Quintella,” he hissed into Wince’s ear. “There are few things that we in the Guild take as seriously as death threats. And by that, I mean in all seriousness … if you say such a thing to me again, I will slit you from ear to ear.”

  Their eyes met for an instant, and Wince glanced away. His heart pounded an uneven beat in his chest.

  The three of them stood in silence until Elam sighed. “We’ve got a long walk, gentlemen. Might as well make the best of it.” He let go of Wince and began to whistle, the sound echoing and eerie in a night that seemed to never end.

  An hour later, Tollan was wavering on his feet.

  Wince watched him, mouth pursed and eyes dark. Finally, when Tollan stumbled and nearly collapsed, Wince said, “We’re going to have to stop so the king can rest.”

  Elam assessed Tollan for a moment before he said, “You have two choices then. You either sleep on someone’s grass, or we’re going to do a little thieving.”

  Tollan glanced at his surroundings. They’d moved into a more prosperous area of Yigris—he assumed that they were on the edge of Brighthold—and the homes here were spaced out, with large lawns surrounding them. Street lamps lit the way, and the paving stones were smooth and well packed. He eyed the small manor in front of them, and his body yearned for a warm bed, a soft pillow. He shook his head. He would not break into one of his city’s homes. He was better than that.

  He thrust his chin at a small grassy patch beside the house. “We sleep there,” he said.

  Wince shuffled forward, head hung low. Elam moved toward the knoll with lithe muscles. The thought of the prayer keeper’s body—nimble and warm—sleeping beside him, made Tollan’s breath catch in his throat. He could not deny the surge of energy that raced through him when the man had touched his arm. And though Tollan knew these thoughts would bring him nothing but pain, he moved forward like a man sleepwalking. To be nearer to that beautiful man, he would gladly sleep in a gutter.

  Elam began to hum softly as they settled on the lawn. “It’s a lovely night for it, Your Grace,” he said, and Tollan had the distinct impression that the man was mocking him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SAFE HOUSE

  It didn’t take long to walk the last distance to the safe house.

  They stood at the very edge of Brighthold in front of a small manor, windows ablaze with light. Devery squeezed her hand as they made their way up the front walk, and Gemma found that she was nervous, though she had no real reason to be.

  He knocked on the door. Before he’d finished his third rap the door flew open, revealing a tall, stately woman with brown hair, pulled back severely. She had full lips and shrewd blue eyes.

  Gemma drew in a deep breath, reminding herself that she was the Queen of Under. Brinna had no reason to …

  “Hello, Mother,” Devery said, his voice vacant of all warmth.

  Brinna’s gaze snapped to her son, and she seemed to remember herself. “Come in, come in,” she said, her words betraying, only slightly, the odd accent she bore. She waved them inside and closed the door behind them.

  Glancing around the entryway, Gemma noticed a chair that seemed out of place. A steaming cup of tea sat on the floor beside it. “You were expecting us,” she said.

  “I saw the flames. I was worried, and I suspected my son might need solace.” She glanced at Devery. “I did not realize he’d be bringing company.”

  “Mother, we’re tired. Save your judgment for morning.” There was a dangerous edge to his voice.

  Brinna’s nostrils flared, but she stayed silent.

  “Excellent,” Devery said. “We’ll be using the guest room, then.”

  Gemma followed him through the entryway and into the hall. She glanced back over her shoulder. Gemma was grateful that Brinna was only throwing glances. If they’d been blades, she knew her blood would be staining the woman’s Ladian carpets.

  Devery led her upstairs to a bedroom that was lushly furnished, then locked the door behind them. When he turned to meet her gaze, his expression was somber. “I’m sorry, Gemma. I don’t know why I keep expecting her to change.”

  “It’s all right.” She pulled him to her by the front of his shirt. His arms slid around her waist. “You’re worth it.”

  He grinned at her, crookedly, and she laughed as h
e slid into a chair. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “We can stay here until the smoke clears,” he said, his expression growing more serious. “The inhabitants are pretty awful, but …”

  “We need to get a plan in place. I’m thinking that if we end up having to assault the palace, we’ll have to go through the Golden Door. I think the rest of the entrances are blocked by brambles and fire. We can put the Ain in the tunnels, in case somebody manages to sneak past us, and I guess we’ll have to count on anyone else who’s able to surround the palace Above. Maybe Lian can take charge there.” She had no idea how many of the Ain or the Guild members had survived the night’s massacre, but it was at least the skeleton of a plan.

  “Or we could just stay here and pretend that the world isn’t ending.” Devery kissed her, his hands wandering down her body.

  “Dev,” she interrupted him. “I can’t just sit here while Yigris goes to shit. In the morning, I’ll have to gather together what’s left of the Guild. We’ll need to start assessing how many mage women are in the palace—it looks like there’s at least four, if Iven’s princess is one, too.”

  Devery looked up at her in surprise. “Princess?” he asked, and something in his eyes scared her, but an instant later, he was standing beside her. “Of course, you’re right. But can we worry about all of that tomorrow?”

  She nodded and leaned into him as he kissed her long and slow. Soon, they were removing each other’s clothing once again until they were completely bare.

  She drew him toward the enormous canopied bed.

  “Prick the goddess,” he murmured as they slid between the smooth, cool sheets. “I don’t want to go to the After when I die. I just want to be here with you.”

  He shuttered the lantern, and the room fell dark. She could feel the beating of his heart. His breath was warm on her neck, and his hand rested on the round of her belly. Tears stung at the back of her eyes. She grinned, stupid-happy in the dark.

  I’ll tell him in the morning when I can see his face.

  PART TWO

  THERE’S

  THE RUB

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE SAFE HOUSE

  Sun filtered through the window, eliciting a groan from Gemma as she pulled the pillow up over her face. “Blessed goddess, can’t you just keep the sun asleep for another day or two?” Her skin slid across satiny sheets as she snuggled deeper into the warm spot that lay beside her, almost as if another person was …

  Her eyes flew open and she tossed off the covers, taking in a room she barely recognized. The night—and day—before came flooding back to her. Despite the warmth and the Devery-shaped divot in the bed beside her, she was alone in Brinna’s guest room. She slid from the bed and dressed.

  As she neared the top of the staircase, she couldn’t help but hear whispered voices. She knew she should turn around, but something pulled her forward. As she reached the top of the stairs, she hid herself behind a pillar. She listened, confused, as she heard Devery and his mother arguing in whispered tones.

  In Vagan.

  Her mouth went dry as she fought to understand, but she had only learned a scrap of the language—just enough to recognize it for what it was. She swallowed hard, heart pounding in her chest.

  Devery was fluent in all the languages of the Four Winds. It was one of the Guild’s requirements before an assassin could be named master, so his ability wasn’t astonishing. But his use of the language at a time like this was nothing short of bewildering. And Gemma could see no reason at all why his mother—a wealthy immigrant from Far Coast—should ever use the Vagan language. Unless …

  Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could barely hear their whispering, when a sudden knock on the front door interrupted thoughts she could not believe she was having.

  The door downstairs opened and Brinna said warmly, “There you are. You had us worried.”

  A young girl’s voice answered, “I’m sorry, Grandmother.”

  Gemma heard the door close, then Brinna said, “Come here, darling. Give me a kiss.”

  Small footsteps darted across the wooden floor, and after a moment, Gemma heard Brinna say, “I’ve a surprise for you. Look who’s here.”

  More movement, and then the girl squealed. “Papa!”

  Gemma’s eyes began to well, her throat tighten. She couldn’t breathe, and her trembling hands fluttered upward to cover her mouth. Below, she heard Devery’s voice, bright and clear, though low.

  “Shhh. We’ve a guest sleeping upstairs. Come here, my girl. I’m glad that you’re safe. You’ve done so well.”

  There was a tremor of emotion in his tone that Gemma had thought belonged only to her. Love. Devery loved this child. This was not an act.

  “You’re filthy,” he chuckled softly. “Go on up to your room, and I’ll send the maid up with some water for a bath. But do be quiet, love. We don’t want to wake our guest.”

  Unable to make sense of what she’d just heard, Gemma turned and slipped back into the guest room, her shredded heart pumping adrenaline through her veins. She paced the room in a fog of regret, and sat down on the now cold bed, the hilt of her blade clutched in a steady hand that managed not to betray her terror.

  Several long moments passed as Gemma sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Devery’s return. Her knife lay across her lap, its blade bared. She was cold and empty. Nearly everything she had ever believed in was a lie.

  When he came into the room, his movements meant to be quiet and not awaken her, she met his gaze with as much ferocity as she could. “Close the door,” she said, and when he stared at her in surprise, she threw her dagger at the wall where it stuck with a thud. “Close the goddess-damned door.”

  When he did, she growled at him, her words more animal than human. “What did you do, Devery? How could you?” She pulled another dagger from the sheath on her ankle.

  Devery’s shoulders slumped as he met her gaze, then looked away. He looked everywhere but at her as he began to pace the small room, his feet making no sound despite what appeared to her to be plodding, weary steps.

  Gemma’s hand twitched on the hilt of her dagger. Her blood was pumping through her veins with such fierceness that she could hear it pounding in her ears. She allowed the rhythm to fuel her rage as she stared at him.

  “I need to explain something to you, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t stab me, but …” He looked at her once more, a wealth of emotion in his eyes. “I understand if you must.” He spread his arms wide. “I am without a weapon, and I offer myself to the queen for judgment.”

  A lump formed in her throat. She nodded. Tears stung her eyes, and she found her hand gripping the hilt of the knife in her lap until her knuckles turned white.

  Devery opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed. He walked the length of the room, then back again, before kneeling in front of her. His face was a white mask, his eyes vulnerable and panicked. “I’ve practiced these words a thousand times.” His voice trembled, but Gemma refused to let him see that it pained her.

  He continued slowly, the words pulled from him with great effort.

  “I planned and prepared and the words … they’re inadequate. Nothing I say will ever change what I’ve done.”

  Her mind raced. Was he responsible for the king and Melnora? Did he set the fires? Why? Her heart ached as the most painful question bubbled to the surface. “Did you kill Fin?”

  His eyes went wide, and he nodded as tears slid down his cheeks. He shook with sobs as he said, “I didn’t want to, Gem. I … It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. He was supposed to be asleep, just like everyone else. Like you were supposed to be. I planned and worked my ass raw making sure this whole thing would be as bloodless as possible. I—”

  She found her gaze pinned to the throbbing of his pulse in his throat. If she reached out with her blade, she could end this, right now. She’d never have to hear what else he had to say. Her voice was low despite her urge to scream. “Not entirely bloodless.
There was Melnora.”

  He sighed. His hands cupped the back of her legs as he said, “No. Not entirely.”

  “Keep your prickling hands off of me, you bastard,” she growled. “You killed Fin! He loved you, and you killed him!” Vomit stung the back of her throat and she gasped for air, but there was none in the room. Every inch was filled with betrayal and rage and agony, and there was no room left for anything else.

  He leaned away from her, his eyes streaming tears. “I had no choice, Gemma. I was protecting …” He trailed off, his eyes flickering in panic. “Gemma, I love you. I would never hurt you. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you!” He shook with emotion and Gemma couldn’t tell whether it was fear or anger or something else.

  “You’ve already hurt me! You may as well have sliced me open the way you cut Fin!” she screamed, slapping at him and pushing the hilt of her knife into his hand. “Go ahead and kill me like you killed Fin. Get it over with. It couldn’t possibly hurt worse than this.”

  “Gemma,” he sighed. “If I wanted you to die, you’d be dead already.”

  He said it without threat or malice. Just a statement of fact. All the fight drained out of his eyes as he met her gaze.

  Her heart turned to stone. She flung the dagger that he refused across the room, and it stuck in the wall beside the first. He might have lost the will to fight, but she was just getting started.

  “Tell me about your daughter, you lying shit! Is she the one who was worth killing Fin for?”

  He stared at the dagger still quivering in the wall. The rage that rolled off her filled the room with black energy. Death lived in rooms like that. Death and words that couldn’t be taken back. He didn’t touch her again. “How did you—” he croaked.

  “I overheard you and Brinna arguing. In Vagan. I heard the girl arrive, and I …” She choked on a sob.