The King Slayer Part 2

"Forty-one," I murmur.

"What's that?" The man's single yellow eye gleams with malice. "I don't think the people in the back can hear."

"Forty-one," I say again, a little louder.

The man gives a grim nod. "As I say. Forty-one lives gone, one life spared-"

"Saved." Nicholas corrects the man, the same way John corrected Gareth. "She did not spare my life, she saved it. And she has saved others." Nicholas looks to Fifer but not to John. No one on the council knows what I did to save him. "Given the opportunity, she may save far more."

"You're not suggesting we allow a witch hunter-"

"Former witch hunter," Nicholas interrupts quietly.

"To fight with us? For us?" The two councilmen look at each other, puffed as a pair of crows. "How are we to believe this isn't all part of a trap? A plan she concocted with Blackwell to get inside Harrow and do away with us all?"

Silence falls as the whole of the cathedral considers his words. Considers the idea that I might be playing my part in a trap, one set by Blackwell and that results in my killing everyone inside Harrow. It's impossible.

Except that it's not.

"It isn't." I grip the hard, square armrests, hating the tremulous sound of my voice but afraid to raise it any higher. "I would never help Blackwell. Not anymore."

The councilmen look down the line to one another, exchanging glances that range from surprise to disbelief. Mainly disbelief.

"I don't want to hurt anyone. I never did, not really," I say. "When I became a witch hunter, I was just a child. I didn't realize what it meant-what it would mean. But I didn't know what else to do." It's a pitiful excuse, the worst. But it's the truth.

"But whether I stay or go, whether I am here or not, Blackwell is coming after you," I continue. "He wants Harrow. Under his thumb or gone, but he will not stop until he gets what he wants. That is something you have to know about him-he always gets what he wants."

The councillors look down the row at one another again.

"If you do allow me to stay, I can help you," I say. "I can help keep him away. I can help try to do away with him." I purposely avoid the word kill. "I worked with him for three years, lived under his roof for two. I know him."

"Not well enough, I'd say," the yellow-eyed councillor retorts. "Otherwise you'd have known he was a wizard. Despite everything you say you know about him, somehow the most important thing managed to escape you completely. It was right in front of you."

"I thought he was using one of you!" My voice rises to a pitch; the lions at my feet bare their teeth at me in warning. "I thought he was using a wizard to perform magic for him. He told me he hated magic. I didn't know it was a lie!"

"How could you not know?" This from the old white-haired man. He doesn't sound angry, just bewildered. "Nicholas a.s.sured us you were an educated, intelligent girl."

"But that's just it," I say, and my voice is quiet again. "I'm just a girl. Or, I was when I went to live with him. I was thirteen years old. I was looking for him to be a teacher, a mentor." I almost don't say the next word, but then I do. "A father, after I lost my own. Not a wizard."

That's when I tell them everything: the truth the way Nicholas wanted me to tell it. How I was the king's mistress. How I was arrested for carrying herbs that prevented me from conceiving his child, then sentenced to death, only to be saved by Nicholas. How I discovered Blackwell was a wizard before setting out to find the tablet Blackwell cursed in order to kill Nicholas, that the only reason I could find it, resting in that dark, dank, moldy, and deathly tomb, was that Blackwell wanted to kill me first.

"He betrayed me, too," I finish. "I believed the things Blackwell told me. I didn't have any reason not to. I didn't go around looking for lies, like I do now. But I know now, and I can help you stop him." I look at John then, his hazel eyes going wide as he guesses what I'm about to say next: "I will fight for y-"

John is on his feet before I finish the sentence.

"She can't fight," he says. "She's still recovering. She's still not strong enough. And she doesn't-" John cuts himself off as he catches himself, about to announce to the whole of Harrow that I no longer have my stigma.

It was Nicholas's idea to keep this a secret from the council. His fear was that if they knew I didn't have it, the threat today wouldn't be exile; it would be execution.

"She nearly died," John finishes, and it's a long moment before he sits again, resistance giving way to resignation.

"I'm afraid I have to agree." A councilman, quiet up until now, speaks from his chair to my right. "She's a child. And as Mr. Raleigh points out, an unwell child at that." His eyes, a deep cornflower blue, sweep over me, observant but not unkind. "I fail to see what she can do for us that we cannot do for ourselves."

I bristle a little at this: at being called a child, at being underestimated.

"She was one of Blackwell's best witch hunters," Gareth points out. I feel a rush of grat.i.tude at his defense, until I realize it is most likely an offense. "And there is the inarguable truth that she did manage to infiltrate Blackwell's fortress, fight her way from that tomb, and destroy the curse tablet."

The line of councilmen erupts with comments.

"She showed a tremendous amount of courage-"

"-went back into that tomb after nearly being buried alive the first time-"

"She managed to get into his palace once before, perhaps she can do it again-"

"Aside from fighting," Nicholas interrupts, "there are many other ways in which Elizabeth can help. She can help train an army. She can provide us with information. About Blackwell's strategy, his home, his defenses. His witch hunters. Of course, you understand this is why he is intent on hunting her down. He knows that in the wrong hands, this information could be a weapon."

"You speak of training an army," another councilman says to Nicholas. "What army? All we've got a.s.sembled are guards, a handful of pirates, and some n.o.blemen." He glances into the pews. "We don't have strength, and we don't have numbers. Not unless we want to start requiring men to fight. Men who have no experience fighting."

"We will get troops," Nicholas says. "But negotiating for them is not a straightforward matter. Gaul has offered men but understandably, they're wary. They've got their own borders to protect, and while they certainly do not side with Blackwell, they also do not want to risk his animosity. What happened with King Malcolm is not something the Gallic king wishes to repeat."

The night of the masque, after Peter came for us and we disappeared from Greenwich Tower, Malcolm and Queen Margaret were arrested and thrown into the depths of Fleet, the most notorious prison in Anglia. Their arrest frightened everyone in Harrow. To orchestrate the incarceration, and possible murder, of a monarch is something not even the staunchest Reformist would consider.

"And in the meantime?" The blue-eyed man addresses Nicholas. "You can't expect Blackwell to wait until we manage to recruit troops. He won't wait for them to arrive before he attacks. That's weeks from now at the earliest. What do we do until then?"

"Prepare," Nicholas says. "a.s.semble our guards, recruit more men. Men who are willing and able to train, men who are not able but who are willing. Open our borders to outsiders willing to fight for us."

He turns to the pews. Makes eye contact with those sitting toward the front.

"It's not enough to wait; it's not enough to deny. Nor is it necessary to place blame, point fingers, punish." Nicholas looks to the councilmen then, at each of them in turn. "We've hidden long enough. The fight has not just been brought to our doorstep, it's through the threshold and it stands inside and it carries a sword. Sending Elizabeth into exile will not close that door, nor will turning her over to the enemy. We must show Blackwell that he cannot simply take what he wants, that Harrow will not fall as long as we are here to defend it. And Elizabeth can help us do that."

The men and women in the pews, moved by Nicholas's words, murmur and nod to one another. Gareth looks from Nicholas to me, to the councilmen.

"Let us prepare to vote."

THE COUNCILMEN RISE FROM THEIR chairs and start down the aisle toward the entrance, stopping beside the water-filled font I pa.s.sed on my way in. The man at the front holds up a hand, index finger pointed to the sky. Holding back his velvety, bell-shaped sleeve with the other hand, he plunges his finger into the bowl.

From where I'm seated, I can see the water, a slow, tepid swirl before, begin to pick up speed, a few droplets splas.h.i.+ng into the air. After a moment, a small puff of steam erupts and he removes his hand from the bowl. Then, one by one, each councilman repeats the process.

As the last man steps from the font, the water stops swirling, turning placid and still as a mirror, silvery and beckoning. It's not a font of holy water, as I first thought when I saw it. It's a scrying bowl.

I've found a few inside the homes of wizards I've arrested, but I've never seen one in use before. They're used to read the thoughts of many people instead of only one, the way a scrying mirror does. Water is a conductor, and an element of truth: impossible to lie to, no doubt to prevent votes from being fixed or made under duress. This must be part of the council rules that Nicholas instated; the magic bears his hallmark: simple, honest, resolute.

Each councilman steps forward and peers inside. Some give a quick glance; some take a longer look. But they each, after seeing whatever it is they see, nod before proceeding back up the aisle and settling into their chairs again, their velvet cloaks a sigh against the wood.

Gareth steps behind the pulpit. Before I can swipe my damp palms against the wooden armrests, he speaks.

"It's a tie."

Fifer looks to me, then John, a grim smile of solidarity pa.s.sing her lips. Peter's face shows alarm; he knows it's likely I will be sent away and his only son with me. Because eight against eight, a tie, must be broken, and only Gareth, as head of the council, can do it.

"To stay or to go." Gareth's voice holds the tone of a man who revels in every eye being on him-which they are-and having the fate of someone in his hands-which it is. "It's clear some of you see Elizabeth Grey as a danger. Someone untrustworthy, someone violent, someone disloyal."

Fifer opens her mouth to object, but closes it quickly. She can't object, because it's true. If I were loyal, I'd still be with Blackwell. The way Caleb was, until the very end.

"By that same token, because we are up against someone untrustworthy, violent, and disloyal, I see that many of you consider that an advantage."

Nicholas watches Gareth as he speaks. His dark eyes harden, obsidian, and I know that look well. It's the look he gave me when his seer, Veda, told him I was a witch hunter. That I was not the wronged innocent girl he believed me to be. I feared him then, and despite everything he's done for me, I fear him still.

"Despite my initial misgivings, I, too, see this as an advantage," Gareth continues. "But the condition by which you will be permitted to remain in Harrow is not only that you fight. It is not enough for you to train our army, not enough to catalog what you know. I want you to use your training to turn against the man who trained you." A pause before his words, hard as steel, clash through the silent cathedral. "I want you to kill him."

Here I sit: chained to a chair in a blood-soaked gown with a blood-soaked past, being asked once more to trade on violence for the sake of peace. I look to John. He holds my stare, the weight of it telling me what he wants me to do. He wants me to decline, to refuse, to be exiled so that we can leave Anglia together, for somewhere he believes we will be safe.

But I was never one to do what others wanted me to.

"Yes," I say. "I will fight for you. I will"-I stop on the word before p.r.o.nouncing it with more force than I feel-"I will kill him."

Gareth nods at me, satisfied; he gets the response he wants. But John startles me with one I don't when he climbs to his feet and says, "Then I will fight for you, too."

The pews erupt with voices but one, more musical than the rest, cuts through them all.

"You can't. He can't."

I-along with everyone else-turn to see Chime, that pretty dark-haired girl from the Winter's Night party who laid claim to John before I came along, on her feet. She glares at the councilman to my left, the one with the same cornflower-blue eyes as hers. At once, I know who he is; Fifer told me all about him. Chime's father, Lord Fitzroy Cranbourne Calthorpe-Gough.

"I really must object." He glances at his daughter, then back at Gareth, his handsome face etched in a scowl. "I don't see how allowing a healer to fight will help us."

"I don't see how it can hurt," Gareth says. "You yourself said we had no army, no men. Now we have one more." He flashes a brittle, indulgent smile at John, who doesn't smile back.

"This is war," Lord Cranbourne Calthorpe-Gough continues. "There will be injuries. John Raleigh is a healer. He saves lives. He does not take them."

"Yet he took one today with very little hesitation," Gareth responds. "And from what I saw, he did it very well. He's already in this fight."

There's nothing to say to this, because Gareth is right. For better or worse, John was in this fight the moment we met. But Chime's father is right, too: Taking lives isn't what John does.

"It simply makes no sense," Lord Cranbourne Calthorpe-Gough says. "We need a healer to attend-"

Gareth waves it off. "We have other healers."

"Surely there are other-"

"Enough." John's voice, deep and sure, rings through the cathedral. "I appreciate your objections, but they're unnecessary. I already said I'll fight, and that's final." He s.h.i.+fts his attention to Gareth. "Are we done here?"

I wait for Gareth to reprimand John's disrespect, maybe to deny his pledge. Instead, he only smiles.

"The council is adjourned."

The chains around my wrists and ankles snap open, falling to the floor with a loud clank. The lions cease their restless prowling, wrap themselves around the wooden legs of the chair, and become inanimate once more. The crowd is silent as they file from their pews, row by row into the aisle and out the front door.

Gareth gathers his book from the pulpit and exits through the side door along with the rest of the councilmen, the same way they came in. John rises from his seat and pushes his way toward me, but he's stopped every few feet by men and women who approach him, shaking his hand and offering their thanks.

Harrow has suffered since the rebellions in Upminster-Anglia's capital and the seat of Blackwell's new power-began two years ago. Witches and wizards from all over the country sought refuge here, safe from the Inquisition and from witch hunters, from prison and torture, flame and death. But more people meant less to go around, and there have been rations for food, land, supplies, and weapons.

John is well liked here, of course he would be. He helps people when they're ill, often for very little money, more often for free. Now he's going into battle on my behalf, many of those here no doubt a.s.suming he won't return.

It's Fifer who reaches me first, emerging from the crowd in front of my chair.

She pulls me to my feet and, together, we make our way to the door that opens into the cemetery, to avoid the stares of the men and women still idling in the hall. We step into a patch of shade beneath a tree, not far from where Blackwell's archer had me cornered against a headstone, not far from where his blood still stagnates sticky in the bright sun. Then she turns to me, her hands crushed against the hips of her green velvet gown.

"Have you gone completely mad?" she demands. "Fighting? Killing Blackwell? Why would you agree to that?"

"I had no other choice."

"Yes, you did," she says. "You could have, oh, I don't know, not agreed."

"If I still had my stigma, it's the first thing I would have done," I say. "Not fighting would have created more problems. The council would have asked questions, and one way or another, the truth would have come out."

Fifer casts about, to make sure no one is nearby, listening. There isn't, but she lowers her voice anyway.

"You could die."

"I won't die," I say. Empty words: It's not a promise I can make and she knows it. "But I also won't sit back and do nothing." I search the people spilling from the cathedral, looking for one in particular. "I don't know what John was thinking, telling the council he would fight, too."

"I do," Fifer says. "He was thinking of you."

"It doesn't matter. He still can't do it."

"I know you think that," she says. "But if I'm being honest, they could do worse. He has your stigma, so he can't be hurt. And he's pretty good in a fight. Peter trained him well."

"I saw."

"At least you didn't make an utter fool of yourself like Chime, the whey-faced thing," she continues. "What right does she have speaking up for John? But there she was, on her feet before the whole of Harrow, bellowing like a fishwife guarding her bucket."

"She was hardly bellowing," I say. "She was just defending him. She did what I should have done."

"He's not her bucket to defend," Fifer says with finality. "And speaking of." She jerks her head toward John, at last making his way out of the cathedral.

The blood has dried on the front of his white s.h.i.+rt, stiff and dark. He has his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, hands and forearms stained red. His hair is unruly and sweaty, his face harried and unsettled. When he reaches us, he wraps an arm around me and pulls me to him.

"I'm in dire need of a bath," he whispers before kissing me.

I smile against his lips; Fifer makes a retching noise.

John pulls back then. "You shouldn't have agreed to fight," he says to me.

"That's what I said," Fifer says.

"No choice," I say again. "Council's orders."