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CHAPTERONE
Of the fivekings who had ruled in the past three years, Gaius Rothalan was said to be the worst. Not because he was a bad ruler, but because he was merciless.
When Thea had petitioned for an audience with the crown, the third king of those five had still been the man wearing it. Now she stood outside the palace with her letter of audience crumpled in her hands, unsure if it was worth setting foot inside the throne room.
“In or out,” the guard at the gate said, as if her tiny moment of hesitation were a burden. “You're the last one today. The gate shuts after you.”
Flustered, Thea gripped her paper and hurried into the courtyard. Afternoon sun dappled the cobblestones, casting everything in shades of gold. The manicured maples that lined the walkway fluttered their orange and yellow leaves in the wind, promising more color in the coming days. Autumn had arrived a bit early this year. Everyone swore it meant winter would be hard. All the more reason to ensure her business was settled now, she reminded herself. The harder the winter, the riskier the travel. Should the winter prove as cold as the sugarmakers claimed, being turned out of her home due to a clerical error no one had been able to resolve could end with an icy death.
“You're late,” called another guard as she approached the palace doors.
Thea was never late. She was also in no position to argue with any of the king's guards, so she kept her jaw clamped tight as she turned the letter of audience for his inspection. He waved her on like it didn't matter. She supposed it didn't. The first guard wouldn't have allowed her through the gate without that letter.
“Won't be anyone left in the sitting hall this time of day,” the guard said. “Go on down the hall and straight to the throne room. Don't knock, he's waiting. Best pray he's not annoyed.”
“Thank you.” She glanced to the door, half expecting the man might open it for her, but he remained at the foot of the shallow stairs. She continued on her own, letting herself into the palace.
Though the rich red granite of the palace exterior led her to expect it would be dark inside, high, narrow windows let in enough warm light that it didn't take long for her vision to adjust. The notion of a sitting hall left her anticipating a waiting room, but instead, a long corridor ran straight to the next set of doors. Benches lined the walls.
“Sitting hall indeed,” Thea murmured to herself as she made for the doors at the far end. All she had to do was go in. The letter granting her audience was all she held, but notes filled the pockets of her skirt. With fortune, the king would be willing to let her read them. Knowing his reputation, she might be allowed two sentences.
She paused outside the doors, drew a deep breath, and willed her hands not to shake. A stray thread on her sleeve caught her attention, a small reminder of the dozen or so garments she still had to stitch magic into, and she plucked it off with a wince. She'd done her best to be presentable and professional. Now all she could do was hope.
Thea squeezed her eyes shut and pushed into the throne room.
A gurgle greeted her and her eyes flew open.
Before the throne, a man in black jerked a blade from the king's chest. Two guards lay beside Thea's feet, slow-spreading pools of crimson beneath their bodies. The crown fell from the king's head and rolled lazily across the room. She watched, frozen, as it tipped over right in front of her and wobbled circles against the floor.
Her chest grew tighter, until she couldn't breathe. A low throb echoed in her ears, the sound of her own pulse drowning out the rattle of the crown and the sick saw-smack of the knife.
The crown stopped and the air rushed back into her lungs.
Thea screamed.
The killer spun toward her with the king's severed head in hand. Instead of the murderer's face, she was greeted by a silver executioner's mask.
She screamed again and an instant later, he was on her. His free hand closed on her arm with the strength of a vise.
Guards burst through the door at her back. They shouted in alarm as they all but tripped over the bodies of their comrades. The assassin spat a curse and released her arm. The guards drew weapons, but he was fast, and a flurry of punches and kicks drove the men to their knees.
Thea turned to flee, but the man in black caught her arm again before she could. He drew a breath as if to speak. Instead of his words, a shrill whistle split the air, and he swore again. “Run!” he snarled, dragging her through the door.
The whistle piped again and a clatter of boots rose in the hall. Thea dug in her heels and strained against the assassin's grasp. He was stronger than she expected and when he pulled again, he almost dragged her off her feet.
Guards spilled into the far end of the sitting hall. More footsteps rose in the throne room behind them, accompanied by cries of dismay as they found what remained of the king. Thea's eyes swung down to the head in her captor's hand before she caught herself. Her stomach lurched and she lost her will to fight.
The assassin bore enough battle lust for both of them. He released her long enough to launch himself at the guards, his strikes precise and devastating. They tried to swarm him, but the hall was too narrow for more than a few to face him at once.
Thea spun back toward the throne room. She made it two steps before he had her again.
“I mean to kill only once more,” he snapped. “Your blood will not be on my hands.”
They burst from the palace and descended the stairs before the gate guard intercepted them. A fist to the face sent him crashing to the ground. Then they were beyond the gate, running for some narrow alley while a chorus of screams rose from the city's people. What was she doing? By the Light, she was running from the law!
Shadow swallowed them and at last, they slowed. Thea jerked her arm free and clapped her hands to her middle. She felt for her pockets, then looked at her palms. Empty. Her paper was gone. “My audience!” she cried.
“Audience?” The assassin turned toward her. His arm shifted and she screwed her eyes shut, lest he make her look at the king's severed head.
