The King Slayer Part 6

Schuyler crosses the room, his boots crunching on the gla.s.s, and looks me over, his nostrils flared slightly at the heavy, iron scent of blood in the air.

"You all right?"

"I think so." I hold up my arm. "I'm cut, but I don't think it's serious."

Schuyler s.n.a.t.c.hes the blood-spattered bed linen from the floor, tears off a piece, and hands it to me. "Don't get up. You'll cut yourself again if you can't see where you're standing." He starts for the door. "I'll be back."

Schuyler returns a moment later with a handful of candles and a bundle of matches. In seconds, the room comes alive with light and the sight of carnage. He looks around, shakes his head. "This is a d.a.m.ned fine mess you made."

I almost laugh.

"Witch hunters, eh?" Schuyler nudges Griffin's body with his toe, then glances at Fulke. "You know, I rather thought Blackwell's men were after Harrow in general, but this time it seems as though they're actually after you." A pause. "D'you have any idea why?"

"'Course not," I say, irritable. The cut on my arm stings like h.e.l.l. "If I did I'd do something about it. If for no other reason than to keep idiots from breaking into my bedroom and making this happen."

Schuyler looks around. "What do you want to do, then? If you want to get rid of them before the guard arrives, you'd better do it quick, because-ah."

Seconds later the door to the bedroom slams open and Peter and John stand on the threshold, broadswords in hand. The emblem of the Watch, a simple orange triangle, is embroidered on the front of their short gray cloaks: a symbol for stability. Almost in unison, their eyes go round as they take in the scene. Griffin, lying on the floor, eyes wide open to the ceiling, his head set in an unnatural angle. Fulke, who has emptied every bit of his blood onto the floor, like a sponge that's been wrung dry.

"What happened here?" Peter rushes to the window, looking out as if he's expecting men to come pouring in at any moment. "They left the front door open, then we saw footsteps leading up the stairs. Mud," he adds. "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

Schuyler gives them a rapid rundown.

John crouches beside me. It's only been a week since I saw him, but somehow he looks different. His hair seems tamer than usual, curls pushed back instead of falling into his eyes. He's unshaven by more than a few days, he's got deep circles under his eyes, and the furrow in his brow now seems etched there, as if it belongs. He drops his sword and picks up my arm, gently peeling off the strip of linen. He hisses a swear at the sight of it.

"It's not as bad as it looks," I say. "It's just a scratch."

"It's more than a scratch." He flings aside the b.l.o.o.d.y fabric. "I don't think you'll need st.i.tches, but I'll need to attend to it anyway. Can you stand?"

John helps me to my feet. Schuyler rummages around in the wardrobe and pulls out my black leather boots and pa.s.ses them to John. He looks confused for a moment, until Schuyler points at the shards of gla.s.s scattered along the floor.

"What else did they say?" Peter turns from the window to face me. "Did they say why they were after you?"

"No." I tug the boots from John's hand and slip them on. "It's as Schuyler said. They broke in, said they were here to take me to Blackwell. We fought, I got cut. But then he said something, I don't know..."

"What did who say?" Peter is beside me then. He plucks a clean handkerchief from somewhere beneath the folds of his cloak and presses it against my arm, which has begun to bleed again. I look to John, but his attention has drifted back to the bodies on the floor.

"Griffin." I point to the feet sprawled on the floor at the end of the bed; it's all I can see of him from here. "When he saw I was injured and didn't heal, he knew I didn't have my stigma. He wanted to know what happened to it."

"Not to worry, love." Peter pats my hand. "He won't be able to tell anyone about it now, will he?"

"That's not it," I say. "It's that I expected him to be glad, when he found out. To taunt me for being weak. Or to get in a few punches on me, knowing I couldn't retaliate. I expected him to do anything but what he did."

"Which was?"

"Act afraid," I say. "You don't know, because you don't know Griffin, but he's not afraid of anything. Anything except Blackwell. But he acted as if he were the one in trouble, not me."

"Elizabeth, what are you saying?"

Schuyler and I exchange a rapid glance, a look of surprise settling into his face as he hears my thoughts before I say them out loud.

"I'm saying I think they were after my stigma."

PETER SLIDES HIS SWORD INTO his scabbard. "I want you to get cleaned up," he says to me. "And then I'm going to take you to see Nicholas."

"Now?" John says. "Why?"

Peter makes a gruff noise. "Because Elizabeth was attacked in her bed by a pair of witch hunters and nearly killed," he replies. "Because she thinks Blackwell sent them after her stigma, which she doesn't have, which you do. I expect that's reason enough?"

"We've got more pressing concerns at the moment, don't you think?" John says. "Elizabeth's arm. And these two." He looks back at the bodies on the floor. "We can't just leave them here. What if there are more of them on the way? Shouldn't we be out there, looking for them?"

"The area was clear when I arrived," Schuyler says.

"Obviously it wasn't that clear," John snaps.

Schuyler raises an eyebrow but doesn't reply.

"I'll take care of matters here," Peter says. "John, you take Elizabeth to Nicholas's once you've got her cleaned up. Schuyler, if you don't mind going ahead to let him know what's happened, and that we're on our way? You can check for more men on your way out."

Schuyler nods, then turns back toward the window, going up and over the sill in a flash. But John doesn't move, nor does he respond.

"John." Peter turns to him and, finally, John wrenches his gaze from the ma.s.sacre on the floor. "Did you hear what I said, son?"

"Don't you need help moving them?"

A brief scowl crosses Peter's face, then he steps forward and grasps John by the shoulder. Gives it a little shake. "I'd like you to help Elizabeth," he says, his voice gentle. "Fetch some hot water. Prepare some medicine, and some bandages for her arm. She'll meet you across the hall in your room."

John looks to me, his eyes at once going wide at the sight of Peter's handkerchief, damp and crimson with blood, still pressed against my forearm.

"Of course. Yes. I'll do that right now." He moves toward the door, then back to me, an uncertain dance. Finally, he leaves, his footsteps creaking on the staircase as he makes his way downstairs.

Peter offers me a wan smile. "He's upset, of course. This evening might have gone differently, and you might be lying on the floor instead of them. It's a lot for him to take in. I daresay he's in shock."

I don't know if that's it at all, but I nod anyway.

"And you? Are you all right?" Peter pulls me into a fatherly embrace.

"I'm fine," I reply, my voice m.u.f.fled against his shoulder. "A little shaken, but otherwise fine. And I'm sorry about all this."

He releases me. "Don't apologize. I should apologize for leaving you alone. But please. Let John take care of you now; I'll manage the rest."

As Peter sets about wrapping up the bodies, I take a stack of clothing from the wardrobe and step across the hallway. I haven't been in John's room since I spent the night there, shortly before he left for the Watch. But something seems different. Last I saw, it was untidy to say the least: wrinkled clothing in a heap on the floor, the table under his window a riot of herbs, powders, and sachets. His desk scattered with books and parchment, pens and ink.

Now it's clean. Books stacked neatly on the desk, the table surface clear, everything tucked neatly into the drawers and shelves below. The room even smells different-what was once a heady mix of spices, herbs, and him-is gone. Now the air is crisp, clear, sterile.

I pull out a chair at the desk and sit, waiting for John to return. A moment later he does, b.u.mping in through the door, lugging a pail of water. Wordlessly, he walks to the basin on the stand beside his bed and starts to empty water into it. But he's not paying attention, not really, and the water spills over the rim and splashes onto the floor.

He doesn't seem to notice his boots getting wet, nor does he seem to notice me watching him. And when the bucket is empty, he doesn't seem to notice that, either; he's still holding it aloft, faint dripping the only sound in the room.

"John." The word comes out a whisper.

He jerks his head around to look at me and, at once, his expression both lifts and crumples, as if he's just now seeing me for the first time.

"Are you all right?" I say.

"You shouldn't be asking me that. I should be asking you that." He drops the bucket with a clatter. "This shouldn't have happened at all. If I'd been here, it wouldn't have. I could have fought them off. Kept them from hurting you."

John pushes away from the basin and makes his way to the table under the window. He rummages around in his drawers, pulls out a small amber bottle. I can just make out his untidy scrawl on the label. Oil of jasmine. He crosses back to the basin and taps a few drops of the scented oil into the water.

"Jasmine is good for a lot of things, such as soothing a cough or stopping snoring," he says. "Which you don't need, of course. It also helps with a woman's labor pains, which you don't need, either. Really, you don't need it at all, only I like the scent of it. It makes me think of you."

I blink at his rapid change of topic, at his nervous stream of chatter. Both are unlike him in every way.

"Thank you." I manage something between a frown and a smile. "I like the smell of it, too." Finally, I rise from the chair and move to stand beside him at the basin.

There are no bathing sheets or cloths to wash or dry myself with, but I dunk my arm in the water anyway, hissing a little as the jasmine oil burns into my cut. I recall the first time John tended to a cut on my hand, after I learned Caleb was the new Inquisitor and squeezed my winegla.s.s so hard it shattered. I remember the scent of mint, the pleasant way my skin tingled when he set my hand in the bowl of water. The way he held my hand in the water, his long fingers wrapped around my smaller ones with his careful touch.

It wasn't like this at all.

John stares unseeing into the basin, the water now swirled through with blood and stained pink. Perhaps Peter is right; perhaps John is in shock. He's been on watch for a week, he's tired and thought he was coming home to rest, but instead he came home to bloodshed-and the possibility that Blackwell's men may be after the stigma-and him.

"If they really are after the stigma, I won't let them find it," I say. "I won't let them find you. I will protect you."

This jerks him out of silence. "I don't need you to protect me. I need you to show me what to do if they do find me. How to use it." His gaze is sharp. "You were asleep. You had no weapons. You weren't even dressed and you still managed to hold them off. You even managed to kill one of them. How did you do it?"

This is so unlike anything John would ever say, or even think, that I'm nearly struck dumb.

"I did what I was trained to do," I finally manage. "Knowing how to do that, it doesn't only come from the stigma. It came from three years of training, from facing danger every single day. From facing death every single day."

"I haven't been facing death every day?"

"You have," I say. "But this is different. You know it is."

John makes a dismissive noise.

"My stigma wasn't handed to me," I say. "I earned it. It may not belong to me any longer, but it is still a part of me that will never go away. I earned it." I repeat it because it needs to be repeated.

"I never said you didn't."

"You didn't need to," I say. "You've made it clear-you and your father both-that you think my value rests on it. You think I cannot do what the council wants me to do, what they kept me here to do." The anger I've felt since the trial flares up once more. "I suggest you go back into that bedroom and take a look at what I'm capable of doing."

I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. John recoils, his face going dark.

"I know full well what you're capable of." He backs away from me. "Not a day goes by that I don't know that."

"John-"

"I'll wait out in the hallway for you to finish." He slams the door behind him, so hard it rattles the frame.

My hands begin to tremble, ruffling the surface of the water. It's not until now that I realize it's cold. Not because it's gone cold, but because it was cold to begin with.

I pull them out of the basin, shake them dry. Walk to John's table, search the drawers until I find a simple paring knife. I remove my nightgown and set about slicing it into strips to wrap around my arm. It's no longer bleeding, but it's still angry, red, and weeping. Unhealed. And my thumb. Swollen and blue and bent, gone nearly numb with pain. I take a breath, press down on the bone, and bite back a groan as it snaps back into joint. I use the last of the linen strips to bind it tight, then slowly dress, pulling on simple brown trousers, a pale blue tunic, and a long dark blue cloak. Run my damp fingers through my hair, pulling it into a knot.

When I step into the hall I don't expect to see him, but he's there, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes on the floor. But he doesn't look up when my footsteps creak against the floorboard, nor when I pull his bedroom door shut with a click.

"John."

He pushes off the wall and makes his way downstairs. I'm tempted to call after him, to apologize, to tell him I didn't mean what I said.

Only I did mean it.

I trudge down the stairs after him. I can just make out the imprint of a pair of muddy boots on the threshold where Fulke made his entrance. They lie beneath scattered droplets of blood: his exit.

I step through the front door into the cold, moonlit night. Across the river from Mill Cottage, in the meadow that stretches for miles behind it, Peter stands beside Griffin's and Fulke's bodies, spade in hand. John stands motionless, watching. He's changed into his old black coat, the gray cloak of the Watch left behind. The collar is flipped up so I can't see his face, but I'm warned by his posture-still, stiff, intractable-to keep my distance.

I pause to watch Peter at work. Take in the sound of iron hitting dirt, the sight of sheets stained with blood and the limp, lifeless limbs splayed beneath them. It hits me then, all the trouble I've caused since coming into John's life. Not just for him, but for everyone around him, everyone he knows and loves. They took me in and stood by me when they could have tossed me aside. It would have been easy enough; it was for Blackwell and Caleb.

I turn to tell him this, to once again apologize for once more failing to understand what he's done for me. But without a word and without waiting for me, he starts down the path that leads from Mill Cottage into town, toward Nicholas's house.

Reluctantly, I follow.

IT'S THREE MILES TO NICHOLAS'S house in Theydon Bois, a walk we take entirely in silence-John leading, me following. He does not ask me how I am, he does not try to comfort me. I don't know what to say to this John who says nothing to me, who stares ahead in stony silence, wielding a sword before him as if he's about to be attacked.

So I say nothing at all.

We walk along an open, uncomplicated road over gently rolling meadows, the fractured moon helping to guide a path John already seems to know well. Eventually, it ends at an arched wooden bridge, the water beneath dark and still. On the other side is a house I presume belongs to Nicholas.

It's different from his home in Crouch Hill, where Nicholas first brought me after rescuing me from Fleet. That house was large, grand, built to impress. This house is smaller, cozier; a country home. Rough-hewn stone walls, slatted wood roof, the front lined with a dozen square shuttered windows.

John leads me down the narrow path to the front door. Dozens of rosebushes in every color, enchanted into bloom even in winter, line the walk. Red ivy and pink honeysuckle crawl their way up the walls, lavender bushes bursting beneath them. I turn to say something to him about it; the delicate wildness of it all is something I know he would appreciate. But he walks inside without even a glance at them, or at me, pus.h.i.+ng past Schuyler as he appears in the doorway.

Schuyler walks out to meet me. He's dressed in the same black clothing he wore earlier but his hands, face, and hair are clean of blood. I find myself wondering if Fifer helped him, if she brought him warm water and bath sheets, or if she stood by while he washed up with cold, stinging water and strips of dirty, bloodied fabric.

"I've seen better nights, haven't you?" he says.

"I've seen better months," I mutter in reply.

Fifer hurtles out the door then, throwing herself at me in an embrace that nearly knocks me over. "Schuyler told us everything. You're not hurt too badly, are you?" She pulls back to inspect me. "I can't believe it. Witch hunters inside Harrow! Rather, what do they call themselves now?"

"Knights of the Anglian Royal Empire," Schuyler and I reply in unison.

Fifer pulls a face. "Nicholas is inside, waiting for you. And John." She pauses, considering. "Why didn't he wait for you out here?" She peers at me closely, green eyes narrowing. "Everything all right with him? And you?"

"He's fine," I lie. "It was a long week on watch. I think he's just tired and a little shaken up. I'm fine, too."

Fifer tugs me inside the house through a short entrance hall into the drawing room. It's cheerful and inviting: Upholstered chairs and settees are scattered over rugs, woven with flowers and vines in vivid shades of yellow, orange, and green. Tapestries of woodland scenes cover the white plaster walls, and the ceilings are open to the rafters in the country style. A stone fireplace takes up nearly an entire wall, crackling flames throwing light and warmth into the room.

Nicholas crosses the room to greet me. He clasps me by the shoulders, his eyes creased with concern.