The night passes in a haze of expensive booze and cheap women. Torvald disappears with a dark-skinned beauty at some point; I do not see him again until the next morning. We gather some provisions, mostly food for the trip back, and head back east. We travel until the light fades, the setting sun disappearing on the horizon behind us. We make a few stops along the way to eat, but otherwise keep moving. The trip is quiet, a welcome change. Outside Red Bear, I keep an eye out for Elloriana's Cure, the dwarf's little shop. It either hides in the darkness, or she has moved on. I hope for the former, but expect the latter. Perhaps I'll find her again; I need that blue dragon steak again before I die.
"Should we stop for the night?" Torvald asks as we enter Red Bear.
"No," I answer through the wood. "Oakwing isn't far."
We pass through the town, cross over the bridge, and continue onward. Without any interruptions, we pass through the gates of the walled city not even an hour later. We stop where we began: outside the Sheriff's Tower. Crawling out of the carriage, I gaze up at its beauty. Sad I will be leaving it behind. But then again, I'm no stranger to new beginnings.
"Sir Rokkoh?" Torvald calls my name, quiet and shaky. His face is white, frozen in a wide-eyed shock. His eyes are locked on something behind me, his index finger rising to point out the mystery. Turning on my heel, I follow his gaze. A pair of feet lay in the doorway to the Tower, leather boots.
"Stay there," I order the boy, heading to the Tower. His silence proves his obedience.
A body clad in leather armor and a green cape waits there, motionless. The sword remains sheathed at his side. Kneeling beside the guardsman, the puncture in his chest reveals a wound. His young face stares into the void with dead eyes. Poor kid must have been caught by surprise. A quick kill, a quiet kill. Hopefully he did not suffer long. Gentle fingertips close his eyes.
"Pist dibu pavaden pandien Locort Ziotum," the prayer flows over him like a gentle stream, cleansing him whole for his next journey.
Echoes drift down the staircase, faint and teasing. Back to my feet, I follow the sound. Every level I advance, the more the noise grows. Voices grunting, crying, pleading. Metal clashing. I pause on the third floor, my eyes hovering on the sign that reads "Paladin Ward" on the door. Can they hear it? Do they know? Are any of them awake, or even home? Despite the distance between us all, they are all still my kin. We might worship different Novhina, but we are all Paladins. Brethren until death. My hand hesitates on the door knob. I should get them, wake them if I must, gather reinforcements for the scuffle above. Yet, I back away. Something in me, call it paranoia or whatever else suits, warns me against entering the ward. Returning to the stairs, I ascend.
Light escapes through the open doors of the Court of Crowns. The voices have quieted, the action stopped. I get to the landing, careful of my footfalls to not give away my presence.
"Ah, Rokkoh," a male voice comes from within. "How nice of you to join us."
I have never been much of a stealthy man.
The emerald and crimson rug is disheveled, bunching up in various places and kicked around. The pews rest near the walls, toppled over and broken. Where they once sat is a ring of guards, a dozen swords drawn. Strewn about the Court are fallen guardsmen, blood staining the polished stone floor. Beyond them, sitting upon the throne in the center of the line, is a man dressed in an exquisite and intricately designed vest, dark plain clothes underneath. His handsome face, crowned and bearded in a fine black, displays his amusement at the show before him. Diamonds dazzle in the light, set into a golden circlet around his head. Green eyes flit to me as I enter the Court of Crowns.
On King Domhnall's right sits the fiery-headed Captain Hunt. He, however, wears pain on his face. He holds his side, a splash of red on his shiny gilded steel armor.
"Good evening, your Highness," I say to my King.
I try to see past the guards, but they block my view. I step closer, peeking over shoulders, and find a figure cloaked in dark leather. A black cloak covers them, the hood up, their back to me. Their arms hold something in front of them. My heart sinks, but I have to be sure. I circle around the ring, slow steps revealing gloves that disappear into the cuffs of the coat. A mask hides the face, but brown skin shows around the eyes. One hand holds an obsidian dagger to the victim's throat, a crimson groove in the center of the blade. The other hand grips tight to a handful of hazel hair. Tears make a mess on tan skin.
"What's going on?" My question is soft, hushed, when Kym's dark eyes find me. "Mattie is our friend."
"She put a price on a child's head," Kym growls. "Fucking evil scum."
"It wasn't me!" Queen Mathilde cries with a fresh stream of tears. "I would never!"
The dagger digs into the royal flesh just enough to draw a little bit of blood.
"It's true," the King admits, cool and casual. "Simply business. I figured you would have understood, assassin."
"If anything," I say to Kym, "you should be going for his throat, not hers. She was the one who made sure Evalina was in good hands. Let her go."
"She had a hand in it," she argues. "She's just as responsible, just as corrupt! The worst monsters have the most convincing disguises."
"To be fair," Captain Hunt chimes in, the pain audible in his gruff voice, "the assassin fucked the whole thing up. She was supposed to kill you all."
My eyes shoot to my injured superior, narrow and full of daggers. In return, he offers a smug smirk and a shrug. If he weren't already in the process of bleeding to death, Lavender would relieve him of his sanguine fluids. I quell that desire, for now, and turn back to my friends in the circle. The guardsmen do not yield as I try to enter; a stiff hand has to pull one of them back so I can get in. He falls back into line as soon as I stand before the two women.
"Kym," I plead, "let Mattie go. Please."
Her vitriol, wild and bloodthirsty, engulfs me. Her eyes beg me to allow her to do this. Tears shine in her eyes, and I can't tell if only anger fuels them. There seems to be sorrow, mourning, in them too. Though she is dead set on spilling Queen Mathilde's blood, part of her silently urges me to stop her. I know it's there, I can see it flicker in and out.
The world around us fades away, and only we remain. My hand, as gentle as a lover's kiss, takes hers and eases it away from the Queen's throat. It hangs at her side as the other releases its grip. The Queen squirms off, disappearing past the guards. My free hand goes to her mask, holding her face for a moment. Her dams overflow, and I hold her close as she sobs onto my steel breastplate. She's so warm as she comes into my arms. We fit together so effortlessly, body and soul.
"Kill them," King Domhnall's order echoes.
Footsteps approach from all around, enclosing on us. Her sadness flips back to the rage, and I mirror it. We turn, back-to-back as the guards approach. Her blade rises, and Lavender comes out to play. Words I do not understand come from her lips, her free hand held high and issuing a current of air above us. Her fingers form a fist as she pulls her hand down to her chest. The air explodes, knocking the dozen guards to the polished stone.
"Bengnic min lamga, mussat seut pleindam indeci Baltevmt," I chant as they get to their feet.
A warmth courses through me, invigorating and divine. The golden aura returns to my steel lady as she comes down on the neck of the first guard to stand in front of me. She finds a chest next, digging deep before ripping herself back out. She keeps three iron swords from clashing upon my steel armor, and for that I thank her. She dispels the trio, a swift and sturdy foot sending one gliding across the floor. The other two watch, hesitate, let their guard down. Lavender swings down at the first one's face, and then up toward the groin of the second.
Behind me, fire flows from Kym's gloved fingers. Three catch flame in seconds, their screams filling the Court. A guard comes to her from the side, his blade high and ready to cut her down. She leans in toward him, dagger extended. It pierces the leather armor at his stomach, twisting there and letting loose a fierce stream of blood. Another comes from the other side, but his battlecry, while commendable, gives away his position. She casts another pocket of forceful air, sending him flying toward the ceiling. He lands on a pile of broken pews moments later with a crunch. I'm not sure if the sound was from the pews or his bones, and I do not want to know.
Nine guardsmen lay dead or dying. The remaining five look to each other, wondering who amongst them would approach first. No brave souls come forth. In their hesitation, I take Kym's magic hand in mine. Her eyes flash confusion, then understanding. The guards don't block our path as we run for the gigantic oak doors. Down the stone steps and out the mouth of the Sheriff's Tower, we flee. Kym whistles a high tone. A pale horse appears, followed by one of similar color and build as Torvald's. For a moment, I wonder if it is the same, but it matters not. Kym mounts the pale one, and I the chestnut.
We ride west to Walteria, to Princess Evalina.