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“I had no idea the noble families here were in such dire straits,” Lord Orpem muttered. “I cannot fathom a countess’s granddaughter working as a performer.”
Ber gave a casual shrug. “The girl has no hope of inheriting, so she’s made herself useful. As I said, bards tend to have a higher status than simple musicians. They often descend from noble lineages or from large, well-established merchant families. It takes such backing to afford the additional training.”
Orpem glared at the cobblestone path for several blessedly silent moments. “What of the mage you mentioned?”
“No promises, but I’ve seen her accept propositions before,” Ber lied.
As soon as the back corner came into view, Ber scanned the little square nestled in a vee of deep hedges, with the forest making up the border on the right side. Araxa stood in the center, and a pair of nobles watched as the mage spun a trio of light globes in the air with her magic. But it wasn’t those he would have her crash atop Orpem’s head. That would be too obvious.
He kept his gaze from sliding to the false, decorative tree at the edge of the forest. From the top of the pole carved to resemble a trunk, branches extended outward, light globes dangling artfully from the attached silver chains amidst a smattering of fake leaves. This particular fixture was part of the reason Araxa did her tricks here. Later in the display, she would lift the globes she juggled to dance around the branches with the other lights.
It would be perfect if one of the chains happened to break at just the right time, at least if he managed everything properly. It had to be before the mage’s display reached the trees, or she could be accused of wrongdoing. And that would requireplanning. Quickly, he connected mentally with Araxa to warn her about Orpem and to ask for her help.
One glance at the man’s leer, and she assented wholeheartedly.
Ber clapped Orpem on the shoulder. “A beauty, isn’t she? Her magic isn’t particularly strong, but she can do some fascinating things with it. Let me show you the best vantage point.”
The lord smirked. “Have you dared to sample her?”
“I would not dishonor Princess Lora in such a way,” Ber replied, though he forced his lips into a grin. “Butwatchingis hardly a sample.”
Orpem’s laugh caught the attention of the two nobles, who sidled away as much as they politely could when they identified Ber and the dignitary. Giving them a friendly nod, Ber guided his obnoxious companion to the decorative tree. Then he opened his senses and waited for the brush of magic that would herald Araxa’s spell.
Ber might not have much power or ability when it came to magic, but he could detect it with unerring accuracy. Mostly, the skill did him little good, but it had allowed him to sense the few magical traps that assassins had attempted to lay for him over the decades. In this case, it revealed the exact moment the pin holding the chain together loosened.
After stretching his arms and covering a yawn, Ber leaned against the false trunk and smiled at Orpem. “Too bad there are no benches in this spot. I would prefer to enjoy the show in ease, but not even this pretend tree could hold me.”
He reached up and gave the branch a quick shake as though demonstrating the impossibility. Instinctively, the dignitary glanced up—just in time for the chain to slip, sending the light globe tumbling to meet the man’s face. And it wasn’t alone. Even without Araxa’s help, a couple of other lights fell, the crash ofglass-on-stone almost enough to block out the sickening crack of the first globe shattering into flesh and bone.
Orpem staggered back with a cry, his hands going to his face. Blood poured down from the eye the man covered, drawing startled gasps from the onlookers. As Ber took a seemingly concerned step forward, he saw Araxa settle her own globes down so she could rush over.
“My lord,” she cried. Then she glanced toward Ber. “Ah, Your Highness! Beware!”
Ber looked over his shoulder, twisting just enough to avoid the arrow that thunked with a surge of magic into the fake tree near his head. He barely processed the snap of wood or the screams of the others. Nor did something thudding against his shoulder stop him from his goal—pursuit. He dashed toward the archer, who was already turning back toward the woods. Though Ber was fast, there was a fair chance he wouldn’t catch up.
Then a light globe hurtled past Ber and directly into the assassin’s lower back, sending him sprawling against the base of a tree. Ber sent a word of thanks Araxa’s way as he straddled the man and gripped his hair. He flicked the knife from his sleeve and pressed it against his attacker’s throat, ignoring the ache in his shoulder from the motion.
“Who sent you?” Ber demanded.
“King Mehl of Llyalia,” the assassin said, shuddering as the blade cut into his skin. “He wants you gone for his husband’s sake. I swear it on my blood.”
Power shivered on the air, a force close enough to a blood oath that someone less sensitive might have confused the two. But Ber had grown up beside the pureness of Toren’s energy, even in the womb, and he’d learned the many nuances during countless childhood arguments. This was the tinge of an oath fulfilled rather than one given.
Ber tugged the man’s head back until his captive gasped. “Who made you swear to say such?”
“I was sent by King Mehl of Llyalia.” Suddenly, the man tried to press himself against the blade. “Another word on the matter, and my whole family dies. Please.”
Someone here ordered this. Someone with power,Ber realized.
“Choose better in your next life,” Ber said, his voice pitched low. Then he shoved the knife into the assassin’s throat and twisted until the man went limp.
“Your Highness!”
His bodyguards rushed forward with swords drawn. Conveniently and unforgivably slow. But Ber sagged in feigned relief, anyway. “Ah, good, you’re here. Please sweep the area for any accomplices.”
This stank of one of King Ryenil’s plots. If it wasn’t, the royal bodyguards would be sentenced to death for failing to secure the area, yet they showed no fear of such a fate. But if Ryenil had been responsible, had it been a true attempt to kill Ber or a test to check his reaction—or that of the royal court? One could never truly know.
Ber allowed one of the guards to help him up, the man’s concern suggesting that Ber’s death hadn’t been the goal. “Thank you. Have you summoned the healer for Lord Orpem? I’m afraid we needed one even before the attack.”
