Page 170 of Fate Breaker

Night fell black outside the council tent, loosing Erida’s chains. Her hour of freedom came and she stood from the table eagerly, Taristan alongside. Along the table, the nobles shot to their own feet, even Morly, who could barely stand.

“My lords,” she said, dipping her brow.

They bowed back at her.

Safe behind her veil, she glanced down their line one last time, scrutinizing every pink face, ruddy with food and too much drink. She was reminded of peacocks in the palace garden, spoiled and dull. Or turkeys, slowly fattened, picking their way toward slaughter.

Most of them looked to her with respect, if not fear. None dared move until she swept from the tent, Taristan carried along in her wake, the Lionguard behind them both.

The Queen’s apartments were a collection of tents, the canvas painted like brocade, the rooms within as well appointed as they could be on the campaign. Grand though they were, her knights took no chances. Half of them ringed the Queen, while the other half searched her tents, passing through the flaps with neat efficiency.

After the attack in Ascal, Erida could not argue. She still felt the Amhara’s blade against her throat, almost as well as she remembered the same dagger spearing through her itching hand.

Satisfied with their inspection, the Lionguard emerged again, and took up their posts around the exterior.

Erida glanced at her palm as they entered the tent, walking into the salon set with chairs, the hard ground covered in fine rugs. Candles burned around the tent, too bright for her eyes. She squinted and blew out a few, her hand stinging. Her wound was healing slowly, thanks to weeks of travel, gripping the reins of a cantering horse.

“Shall I call for Dr. Bahi?” Taristan muttered, watching her as she examined the bandage around her palm. He idled by the wooden screen dividing the salon from their bedchamber. “If there’s sign of infection—”

Erida shook her head and threw off the mantle around her shoulders, letting it land in a heap on the carpeted floor. Her maids would attend to it in the morning.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “I’m lucky to still have the hand at all.”

Then a shadow stepped out from behind the screen, the weak light setting him in silhouette.

“Sorasa Sarn is losing her touch,” the man murmured, mouth curled in a half grin.

Taristan reacted first, going for the sword at his waist, while Erida shuddered, stumbling backward against one of the cushioned chairs. Hermind roared, the edge of her vision streaking red, rage and fear leaping up inside her.

The hooded shadow sidestepped the first swipe of Taristan’s blade, then the second, swift as the wind.

Even as What Waits twisted inside, all but yanking her away from the shadow, toward the flap of the tent, Erida stayed flat against the chair. Her stinging eyes narrowed, head pounding. She would not leave Taristan behind, not even while every instinct screamed at her to do so.

Again Taristan struck and again the hooded shadow dodged, as if the Prince of Old Cor were only a child playing at swords. His motions were quick and fluid, like water.

Like asnake.

“Lord Mercury,” Erida breathed, the pieces slotting together in her mind.

Taristan’s sword caught the edge of a chair, embedding in the wood. Before he could wrench it free, the shadow kicked it from his hand. Then he turned, sweeping out an arm to bow, his dark cloak billowing.

“At your service,” the shadow said.

His hood fell, swept back from a skeletal face, tanned skin drawn tight against murderously high cheekbones. His hair was silver, near translucent, and his eyes were a pale green, the same color as jade.

The same color as the circular seal she’d received, in exchange for a mountain of gold and a contract with the Amhara. It was back in Ascal, but Erida remembered it keenly, the image of a snake carved into the jade.

Her throat tightened, even as What Waits calmed within her. She swallowed against the sensation, trying to make sense of the man before her.

The lord of the Amhara, commander of the deadliest assassins upon the Ward. Here in my tent.

She gritted her teeth, her eyes flicking to Taristan. He stared back at her, panting, a question in his eyes. Slowly, she shook her head, and he relented, backing away from the assassin king.

What will it cost me?

“I did not know the leader of the Amhara Guild could leave his citadel,” she said, straightening up in her seat as gracefully as she could. “To what do we owe this great honor?”

Lord Mercury stalked toward her. She thought of the snake again, slithering and poisonous. But he was charming too, still handsome despite his age.