Page 4 of Four Ruined Realms (The Broken Blades #2)

Mikail

City of Quu, Khitan

Fallador is more attractive than I remember, which is saying something. He’s about six inches shorter than I am, but just as solid. His posture and manner are regal and relaxed, but he’s sharp as a tack. He’s my age—maybe a month or two different. And neither of us should be alive.

Allegedly, we both died in the Festival of Blood nearly twenty years ago. Like me, Joon made him an orphan, but Fallador didn’t have to depend on the heart of a stranger. His royal connections hid him and spirited him away to Khitan, where he’s entertained the court ever since. Every realm adores former royalty—especially someone charming like him.

Most importantly, he’s been a source of information for me since I became a spy.

Fallador’s villa is halfway up Oligarch Mountain. The closer you are to the top, to the golden Palace of the Sky King, the higher your status.

Interesting, in a country of supposed equals.

We sit in his parlor. He placed tea and custard buns on a tray between us. Rain pours against the glass balcony doors, but it’s well-lit in here. Fallador occupies the couch; I’m across from him in one of the plush armchairs. His green eyes sparkle like the gilding around us. This country is obsessed with gold the same way Tamneki loves water features. People will do anything to emulate power.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” he says with a smile.

We’ve been in contact, but the last time I saw him in person was over a year ago. What he means is he never expects me to be alive. I’m surprised at times myself.

“En Gaya,” I say in our native tongue. It means to the homeland .

He smiles. “En Gaya.”

We lift our porcelain cups and sip. It’s a good strong tea from the island. The smell reminds me of home. Everything about Fallador does. We speak in old Gayan when we are alone, which is a comfort I never remember how much I need.

“Not that I don’t love making small talk with you, but to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks. “I assume you already know about the rather sudden regime change.”

I nod. “I’ve come as part of an envoy sent by King Joon to welcome the new queen regent.”

I try out my first ruse on him. It makes the most sense—to be here with Euyn as part of a diplomatic scheme to greet the new ruler of Khitan. The king of Khitan conveniently died a month ago, leaving Quilimar as the regent for their young son.

Fallador grins. “Except she already received Yusanian dignitaries last month.”

No dice.

“There’s no way to arrange for an audience?” I ask, leaning forward.

He mirrors me, ready to whisper a secret. His skin is also a warm brown like mine, in sharp contrast to the white of his shirt. When he gets closer to me, there’s a feeling of longing that hits my core. But Fallador and I have never been lovers. It’s the desire for home.

“There was an attempt on Quilimar’s life a week ago,” he says. “She sees no one now.”

I sit back and sigh. The timing is hardly a coincidence. But why? Why would Joon send us to fetch the ring, yet at the same time make it more difficult to get to Quilimar? The monarchs are always trying to eliminate each other, so assassination attempts are nothing new, but what is his ultimate goal? And how far does this plan extend? Is it possible there is another player involved? Or is that wishful thinking?

“Any chance the general was behind it?” I ask.

General Vikal is as ruthless as they come. In some ways, women have to be in order to be respected, whether here or in Yusan. Especially Yusan. Mercy is seen as weakness when it’s doled out by a feminine hand.

Fallador shakes his head. “Doubtful. The rumor is the general shares Quilimar’s bed. And perhaps helped her dispose of the former king. However, the attempt was carried out by Vikal’s second in command.”

“Perhaps Vikal wants the throne for herself,” I say.

“It’s possible,” he admits, stroking his dimpled chin. “But after the assassination attempt, the general publicly chopped up her lieutenant, starting with the toes. It ended with her throwing his head into the sea. Hardly speaks of a coconspirator.”

Stars, the Dasseos Continent loves a brutal murder. Piteua is a horrific way to die and the Khitanese equivalent of lingchi. It means “death from the feet up,” and it’s exactly what Fallador described. You’re alive to feel most of your body being hacked away. It’s saved for the worst offenses—attempted regicide being one, of course.

“I’ll probe my sources for a way in for you,” he says.

“Thank you, my friend.”

I rest my cup on the table, hiding how disheartened I am. I was hoping for an easy and fast way to Quilimar’s ear. But nothing is going to be quick or simple now. Not after a conveniently timed assassination attempt.

I stand, and Fallador does as well. He shakes hands with me. His palm is warm, his hand strong. We lock eyes, and there’s a spark, a distinct energy between us. But I look away. I always do, because some doors can’t be closed once they’re opened.

“Before I forget, this came for you this morning.” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a sealed envelope. It’s still coated with intact clay and stamped with the seal of Qali Palace.

I examine the envelope.

“You can imagine my surprise at receiving eagle post meant for you,” he says with a soft smile.

I arch an eyebrow. He already knew I was coming, and he didn’t bring it up until now. Of course. Fallador would never show his hand early.

“I didn’t think Joon would miss me enough to write,” I say.

I smile and open the letter, using a hidden dagger in my sleeve. I’m careful to control my breathing, giving nothing away, as I read the simple message. It’s coded, but it translates to:

Gone

Just one word sent by eagle post to reach me quickly. No signature. But I know Zahara’s handwriting and her code. She was my second-in-command and now must be the acting royal spymaster. However, she is telling me that Joon is no longer in the palace and she is unsure of his whereabouts.

But she knew where I would be and whom I would contact. Also, just as surprisingly, she is still loyal to me.

Unless it’s all a ruse.

I crumple the note in my fist as though the message is of no real importance. What is Joon up to? Is he actually out of the palace, or is that simply what he wants me to believe? He would need something compelling to put his life at risk outside of Qali. What could that be?

“Another friend in the palace?” Fallador asks, raising a thick eyebrow. He, of course, knows about Euyn. It’s hardly a secret.

“Something like that.”

I toss the letter and envelope into the fireplace and watch them burn. The papers disappear as I grip the mantel. Why would Joon leave? And why would Zahara say either way? She came to me through him. She is loyal to him. At least on the surface—anyone, including a royal spymaster, can have other allegiances.

Zahara told me “safety in death” before the Millennial Celebration. At the time, I thought it meant to kill the traitors rather than bring them in alive. But if she knew the plan all along, perhaps she was telling me to take my poison pill before I could be used by the king.

Why, though? Who can tell me more?

“Adoros,” Fallador says.

I shift my gaze from the fire to his face. He’d been speaking, and I missed it until he said my name. My real name. I haven’t been called Adoros since I was a child. But we knew each other as little boys. We used to run through the charm fields together, a lifetime ago.

I meet his eyes.

“The empire will never understand us, no matter how much you love him.” He places his hand on my shoulder and gives me a meaningful look before smiling.

It’s as much as he’s ever said about Euyn or my connection to the palace. When I first learned that Fallador was alive and living in exile, I worried he’d judge me for surviving, for living with the enemy, but he never did. Instead, he said: if you are devoured by an iku, it does not make you sprout gills . But perhaps his feeling has changed. I’d like to say it doesn’t matter, but it does.

After our traditional cheek kisses goodbye, I walk out of his villa and into the heavy rain. The monsoon season started today, giving us twenty-eight days, two sunsaes total, to return to Yusan. I hope it’s at the head of Khitan’s army.

Either way, I swear on the stars that if Joon touches a hair on my father’s head, I will cut away everything he’s ever cared about. Including his daughter.

Sora may trust her, but I do not. She’s still hiding something. I’m not sure what it is, but I will find out.

With my collar up, I take the narrow, winding side road that leads back to the harbor. Oligarch has a main passageway that circles the mountain as well as smaller, connecting side streets that snake down the hillside. I decide to take the latter.

Most people carry umbrellas once the rains start, but I never do. I need to be able to see in every direction. A lined raincoat would be a good purchase, though. I’ll buy one soon. Khitan uses paper money, and Fallador gave me a thousand marks before I left. It’ll be more than enough to cover everything we need, but there are always other means of getting money.

I make it down one street before I confirm I’m being followed. I caught a shadow as I left Fallador’s villa, and I just heard a noise. I let out a sigh. Whoever is watching me is plain sloppy. The lack of effort is offensive.

A single block later, I’m surrounded—three spies, all Khitanese.

Someone tipped them off. Another traitor in our midst.

I sigh. Yet another lie to sniff out.

“Spymaster,” one says. “We are here to bring you in.”

“I’m afraid I already have plans,” I say.

Thunder claps overhead, and I grab ahold of my dagger. I turn so my back is to the wall of a yellow villa, leaving a spy to each side of me and one in front.

The woman steps forward. She must outrank the two men, but all three seem younger than me. No wonder they’re sloppy—they’re low level. They even look like spies, wearing dark, drab clothes. Although one does have a nice raincoat.

“Drop your weapon,” the woman says.

I smile. “Now, why would I do that?”

She is just far enough away for me to get a running start. I take one step. Two. Then on the third, I launch into the air and aim my dagger. I don’t slit her throat so much as lodge my blade into her neck.

I pull out the dagger just as swiftly. She falls, gurgling to the ground. The second spy moved to strike while my back was turned. Not a bad play, but he’s not nearly fast enough. I swing my arm back and stab him in the gut. Then I pull the blade upward until I hit his breastbone. He doubles over in pain and lets out a howl so loud it can be heard over this thunder.

Stars, die with dignity.

I yank the dagger out and slit his throat so he stops screaming. I don’t need nosy passersby or innocent, helpful people to join us in this alley. Thankfully, most sought shelter from the storm.

The last spy is still trying to get his blade out. I shake my head. He should’ve been a fisherman instead.

He stills when I walk up to him, too scared to move, despite being my height and maybe a little more muscular than me. My arm and dagger are dripping blood. I drop the blade as I get within a few feet of him, letting it clatter onto the wet stone. He stares at the ground, confused for a moment. It’s long enough for me to reach out and take his head in my hands. With a hard twist, I snap his neck.

All three lie dead or dying. I take the raincoat off the last spy, then rifle through each of their clothes. I help myself to another five hundred marks, two daggers, and three poison pills. It’s not like they need any of that now.

None of the spies carry identification, so they at least knew that much. There’s no indication of who sent them, but I’m fairly certain this welcome party came from General Vikal herself. I might as well send back a reply.

I wait for a full minute, folding my new black raincoat, and then I set it on a barrel down the street. It’s still raining hard, but I leave it off because I’m about to make a mess—blood work, of a sort.

I grab my dagger off the ground and then I kneel. I slit the woman and the last spy open from their necks to their navels. Conveniently, I already cut open the other one. But this is why I waited the extra minute—to ensure they were dead. The spies were incompetent, but they hadn’t wronged me. They didn’t deserve to be alive to feel this. This isn’t lingchi.

With all of the bodies open, I stick my hand into the first man. The organs steam. It’s all blood and a hot, squishy mess because this is the one I gut stabbed, but I’m far from squeamish. It takes a little fishing around. I’m a killer, not a healer, but I find his spleen. I cut it out and toss it to the side.

It’s kind of like gutting a fish.

Then I do the same to the other two bodies.

Khitanese people traditionally believe bravery comes from the spleen. They might as well believe it comes from the big toe for all the sense it makes. Bravery is in the mind being stronger than the body, more powerful than logic. But my message is clear: the demon is alive and well in Khitan, and if you come for me, you’d better have more nerve than this.

Once I’m done, I walk down to the barrel. I rinse my hands in a nearby puddle, then drape the raincoat over my shoulders to hide the blood soaking my clothes. After all, what’s another secret?