Throne Hunters Book Four, Chapter 34

Not too long ago, Harald had been unable to run a city block without breaking into a copious sweat and wanting to vomit out a lung. The memory of his first dawn runs with Sam were still sharp in his mind; the stabbing pain in his side, the pain in his joints, the way his body had felt like a heaving mass of mewling lard.

Now he ran like the wind, and felt like he need never stop. For a split second after quitting the auction house he’d debated hailing a phaeton, paying the driver a Golden Dawn to spurn all traffic laws and get him to House Celestara manor as quickly as possible, only to realize that was a foolish idea.

Madness, really, when he could run the distance in probably a quarter of the time. So he’d taken off at an all out sprint, and never slowed down.

Like a bolt he tore along the sidewalks which were thankfully emptying out at this dusk hour. When a knot of pedestrians threatened to slow him down he’d simply veer out into the street and navigate the carriages and carts as if they were stationary, the balls of his feet barely touching the cobblestones.

Constitution 20. An impossible number, far beyond the reach of mortal men, an endless reserve of energy and speed that allowed him to devour block after block, to race faster than even the fleetest footed man might run. Shocked stares followed his passage, the occasional donkey or nag neighed or reared in alarm as he bolted by, but before their drovers and drivers could curse him he was gone, vanished down the street, racing, endlessly racing toward his distant target.

House Celestara.

His mind teemed with concerns, speculations, hope. Had all gone according to plan? Would he arrive to find Yseult disarmed by a poised Melisende, seated beside Anna and drinking tea, both solidifying their alliance to Flutic’s gain? Or would it be bloodshed and battle, a losing proposition, and he arriving just in time to try and extract his friends?

Thank the angels the Angelus Quarter was so rarefied and dignified that its broad sidewalks were nearly deserted. Elegant carriages trundled down the road, but there was precious foot traffic. Walking was too plebian for the rich. The occasional City Watch patrol let out a hoarse cry of alarm as he blazed past, but they were too slow and mortal to give chase.

Endless high walls around private gardens. Bright scale-lanterns above elegant gatehouses. Brown-grassed islands running down the center of broad avenues, which would soon, with spring around the corner, give bloom to a riot of colors and rich scents.

House Celestara. There.

Harald nearly ran past it, had to lean back and stutter step as he slowed, and found the gate open, a handful of guards in blue and gold staring back at the manor where no doubt Yseult and the rest of her crew had raced by only a minute or so ago.

Not stopping to ask for permission, Harald slipped inside and along the inner wall, Veil of Shadows making him silent and easily missed, and then ran parallel to the main drive over the lawn and shrubberies toward the manor’s front.

No outcry, no shouts of alarm.

Not from the gate, at least. The manor itself was aswarm with activity. House guards had gathered at the front, blades bared, all intent on the thrown open front doors. Servants stood at a safe distance, clutching at each other, cooks and butlers and maids and grooms, all watching wide-eyed as their impregnable home was assailed.

But from within?

No sound of violence.

Harald slowed as he approached the steps, Veil of Shadows straining to keep him unobserved, but its power wasn’t absolute and when he mounted the front porch and entered the lantern light the guards reacted, jerking back and letting out muted oaths of alarm.

But Harald pressed through like a knife slid into a mark’s back, and entered the double doors.

Blood. Bright and shocking smeared across the marble floor. Four bodies were laid alongside one wall, their wounds pinking patches of the sheets that had been laid over them. Men and women stood about in consternation, muttering and on edge. There, to one side, Nessa, Sam, Kársek. Watching them with wary alarm were the rest of Yseult’s crew, hands resting on pommels, all but silently snarling at the intruders.

“Harald!” Sam’s voice rang out shockingly loud, cutting through the tension like a hot iron through a snow.

He jogged up, ignoring the stares, the outrage that a stranger could just enter at will, but nobody moved to stop him. “Sam. You’re alive. Melisende? Anna? Vic?”

They were all unhurt, though their clothing was slashed and bloodstained, evidence of wounds taken not long ago and since healed.

“It’s…” Nessa grimaced. “Harald. Vic’s…”

“What?” Harald caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Yseult’s crew approaching, five strong, each a remarkable figure in their own might, House Celestara’s Gold-ranked crew.

Their leader, absent Yseult, was a stern young man, his white hair shorn around the sides but long and flowing on top, his features remarkably similar to Yseult and Melisende’s. Twin scars were cut into each cheek, shaped like a star, and his gaze was sober, gray-eyed, and hard as cold iron. “You. Where are Sabine and Garravin?”

“My apologies,” said Harald, realizing that he meant it. “They tried to stop my leaving.”

“Tried?” The youth’s skepticism was obvious. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re dead.” Harald considered the matter, then shrugged. “Like I said. My apologies.”

“They’re… dead?” The youth couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the fact. “You had… help? What…?”

“Excuse me,” said Harald, turning away, only for the room to suddenly birth a sun so that the air grew searingly hot, the light painful, his sinuses and mouth and throat abruptly drying out as all moisture was stolen from them.

“Don’t turn your back on me,” warned the youth with low lethality. Harald glanced over his shoulder. A disc of incandescent pale gold had formed behind the man, six feet in diameter, the air about it superheated and shimmering. His white hair streamed as if caught in a violent wind, and his irises had blazed up in similar manner, eerily akin to Sabine’s. “Where are Sabine and Garravin?”

“They’re dead,” snapped Sam, stepped forward to confront the youth. “If Harald says they’re dead, they’re dead.”

A female crew member wearing gold and white robes and an almost ludicrous mask of pale ivory with tall golden ears in the style of a rabbit shook her head. “They were Silver-ranked, each 6th Level.”

“They weren’t enough.” Harald forced himself to meet the young man’s burning glare. “I swear it on the angels. They’re dead, I’m here, and I need to know what’s going on.”

“This goes too far,” said a third figure, a man encased completely in liquid black plate armor, his hair emerging form the back of his helm to burst into a cloud of black curls. “We’re too allow murderers to just enter our House?”

“To be fair, you guys ambushed me,” said Harald, and now impatience made him turn away from the Gold-ranked crew back to Sam and the others. “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened?” It was the burning-eyed youth who responded, voice rich with disdain and incredulity. “That’s what Lady Khan is determining. Lady Melisende is dead, Lord Josse has claimed the title of Lord of House Celestara, and blood is everywhere to be found.”

“More yet will be spilt,” promised the man in the liquid black armor.

“Melisende… dead?” Harald raised both brows.

“Dead,” said Sam wearily. “They’re upstairs, discussing it now.”

“Anna and Vic?”

Nessa nodded, glanced at those around them, and was clearly constrained from speaking freely. “Things didn’t go as planned.”

“I’m going to join them,” said Harald, and moved toward the stairwell.

Only for the blazing-eyed youth to appear in his path, the burning disc swelling out to twice its size. Harald was forced to narrow his eyes against the blazing brightness.

“You will do no such thing,” said the youth, tone implacable.

There was no forcing his way through. Sabine and Garravin had been Level 6, but this kid could be anywhere north of Level 10. Not to mention the other five raiders who were all probably Gold-ranked as well.

Harald raised both palms. “Events are spiraling out of control. I must speak with my friends.”

The young man crossed his arms with evident satisfaction. “No. Wait here with the rest of us, and be grateful we don’t tear your head off. Yet.”

“Yet,” agreed rabbit ears. “You’re going to answer for Sabine and Garravin.”

Harald glanced about the hall then made a show of sighing. “Fine. Not a problem.”

For a moment longer the Gold-rankers glared at him, but when Harald made no move to press forward, the youth released his golden disc so that it shrank and disappeared, and their group moved slightly to the side to resume their low conversation.

There was no hope of sneaking past them up the stairs, however.

“Harald.” Sam touched his elbow. “Anna looked livid. Vic’s wearing the Crown. Everything’s gone to hell.”

“That so?” He took a brisk breath. “Let’s step aside. Tell me everything that happened.”

Their little group moved to the far wall and as close to the front door as he dared bring them. Kársek looked exhausted, his face drawn and carved with deep lines. He patted Harald’s shoulder comfortingly but said nothing.

“Well—” began Sam.

“I’m going to slip out,” whispered Harald. “Keep talking as if I’m here. You three, form a wall between me and them.”

Sam went to protest than resigned herself to the inevitability of Harald’s intentions. “Fine. Be careful.”

Drawing on Veil of Shadows once more, Harald ghosted back along the wall and slipped back out the front door. Veil was at its weakest in direct lamp light, so he drew hard stares, but his blank face and empty palms abetted any immediate challenges, especially as he walked directly down the steps as if intent on quitting the property by means of the front gate.

As soon as he was a little ways down and in the dark, he cut left, leaving the driveway, and circled the manor, moving low and fast till he reached the rear. The whole property was on alert, with groups of guards standing about and discussing in low tones what had happened, several of them bandaging each other’s wounds or holding aloft lanterns as they peered into the dark. Harald avoided these groups and studied the windows at the back of the manor till he found what he thought was a likely target.

Moving close, he waited for the right moment then leaped up a good fifteen feet, Strength 20 giving him wings. He grabbed onto a ledge, hoisted himself smoothly up onto a balcony, and with care cracked open a door and slipped inside.

The second floor. The murmur of voices came from down below somewhere, the main hall being out of sight around a corner of the corridor. Listening intently, Harald padded along the hall till he saw four guards stationed outside a set of double doors.

He approached, hands raised.

The guards immediately dropped their hands to the hilts of their swords. “What are you doing here? Everyone’s to remain below.”

Harald activated Thronebound Mantle. The terrible power of his dark presence washed over the group, causing them to falter and step back. “I’m here to see my friends, Victor Carmine and Countess Anna. Please announce me. Harald Darrowdelve.”

The men glanced nervously at each other. Already on edge, it was clear they wished to bully him away, but his Passive was simply too powerful; with obvious reluctance one of their number knocked on the door and cracked it open.

“Excuse me, my lord, my lady, but a Harald Darrowdelve wishes to enter.”

Voices arose in momentary confusion, but then Vic’s pierced the babble. “Harry-boy is here? Josse, darling, let’s invite him in.”

“Yes,” agreed a vaguely familiar voice from that dinner from so long ago. “Let him in.”

The guards stepped aside. Harald entered.

It was a council chamber, the table oval and of honeyed wood, the walls bedecked with bookcases and banners. No windows, but candelabra filled the air with a soft radiance and four figures had risen to their feet.

Anna, Josse, and Yseult.

But none registered as vividly as Vic, who wore the Twilight Crown at a rakish angle upon his golden curls, his eyes burning fever-bright, his manner languid and regal, his upper lip red with blood, his presence burning off him in waves. Harald’s voice caught in his throat. Never had he thought Vic could look so naturally authoritative, so commanding, so impressive.

It galled him, but he wanted nothing less than to bow to his old friend.

“Harald!” Vic waved at an empty chair. “Join us. We were hashing out the particulars. Everything is going splendidly.”

Yseult’s golden helm was set on the table so that her white hair could fall in waves about her pallid face. Her jaw was set, her gray eyes narrowed, and fury radiated from her like pulses of pain from a gut wound. “Don’t presume to speak for House Celestara,” she said.

“He doesn’t,” agreed Josse, who sat ram-rod straight before a golden scepter that lay before him on the table. “That is my prerogative alone.”

“Of course, of course,” said Vic, waving the matter away with affable indifference. “But we are well on the way of resolving these little matters of disagreement, are we not?”

Anna’s gaze was equally livid as Yseult’s, but she simply caught Harald’s eye and gave a slight shake of her head. Whether that was an indictment of the proceedings, the situation itself, or a warning Harald couldn’t tell.

“Lady Melisende is dead?” Harald moved to stand behind a chair. “That means you are the head of House Celestara, Lord Josse?”

“Precisely so,” said the white-haired man.

Yseult closed her gauntlet into a fist so tightly that the metal creaked as it threatened to warp. “This is an outrage. I demand we discuss what happened alone, Josse. For the last time: send these people away or I will kill them.”

Josse’s cheeks flushed. “You will do no such thing. Victor Carmine is our guest. Matters tonight have been horrific, but I know they will ultimately be to our House’s immense benefit. I saw Melisende attempt to kill our guests with my eyes. When I tried to restrain her she went mad. She was under some outside influence, Yseult. She wasn’t herself. What happened was a tragedy, but now I am lord of House Celestara, and you are my sworn vassal.” His voice grew hard. “Do as your oath compels you.”

Yseult grimaced as she shook her head slowly from side to side. “I have only your word, and it flies in the face of all reason. I—”

“Yseult. Darling.” Vic leaned back in his chair. “Listen to me. No—listen.” And the sheer force of Vic’s will filled the room, stopping Yseult’s words even as she physically seemed to wrestle with his power, lowering her chin, her whole body shivering with effort. “What’s done is done. Be practical. Pragmatic. You are the eldest, but you swore a silly oath to never lead House Celestara, to always be its martial champion. Right? Right. Which means Josse here—King Josse, as he’ll soon be known—is the next to inherit. Let’s not pretend we live in a bright world of roses and honor. These drawing rooms are as cut throat as the back alleys of the Shambles. Josse is your lord. You are oathbound to serve him. And if you don’t?” Vic’s smile could have cut diamonds. “You’ll divide your House farther just as Emberfell comes knocking. Because they will come, and you can choose to meet them weak and in tatters or unified and ready to fight.”

“We have no fight with Emberfell,” ground out Yseult. “This is madness.”

“You had no fight. But now you do. It’s a cruel world.” Vic studied his nails. His eyes had grown sunken, his lips cracked. “Accept the way things are and not as you wish they were.”

“He’s right,” said Josse. “Victor is correct. What’s done is done. Now either you serve House Celestara, or you plunge it into chaos and weaken us when we need our strength most.”

“You—” began Yseult, but then she swallowed her words and grimaced again. Harald could only marvel. Vic’s presence had to be off the charts. He was overwhelming a Gold-ranked raider with his stare alone. The Crown gave him +5’s, which the Aureate Master doubled, but that couldn’t explain Yseult’s compliance.

Josse, sensing his moment, rose to his feet. “Sister. House Celestara stands to gain like never before. I shall be king!” For a moment Josse fell silent, as if amazed by his own statement. “And you shall be my right hand. We shall lead Flutic into a golden age. Either you help make this happen, or you destroy us all.”

Yseult bit her lip so that blood suddenly ran down her chin. She closed her eyes tightly, shuddered once more, then bowed her head. “Fine. It’s as you said. What’s done is done.” But then her eyes snapped open and her gray gaze flashed. “But this isn’t over, Josse. I will find out exactly what took place, and Melisende will have justice. One way or another.”

Josse paled and glanced to Vic.

“Yes, yes, justice for Melisende, just like she extended justice to everyone else.” Vic sighed. “In good time. But now? It’s time to act. Right, Harry boy?”

“Vic,” said Harry, forcing the words out. “A word?”

“Hmm? Sure. Yes. King Josse, how about you and Lady Yseult go inform the others below that all is well? I need a quick chat with my friend here and then we can start planning the rest of the night. Oh—do you think you’d want a purple royal cloak, or to stick to House Celestara blue and gold?”

Josse blinked. “Um. Both?”

“Sure,” said Vic. “Cloaks for every occasion.”

Josse smiled uncertainly and rose to his feet. “Come, sister. It’s time we addressed the entire House as one. They must know we stand united.”

Yseult rose slowly to her feet. Her glare could have carved furrows in stone. She was a storm cloud just waiting to spew lightning, and Harald feared how she might behave away from Vic.

But they needed to talk.

When the Celestis siblings quit the room, Vic sighed, leaned back, and propped both boots up on the table. “I won’t say I completely saved the day, but I kind of did.”

“You.” Anna’s word was all withering scorn. “Take off that Crown. Now.”

“Hmm? This?” Vic reached up to touch the Crown as if in surprise. “Why should I do that? It makes me feel very attractive.”

“Vic.” Harald dry swallowed. Damn, but even with his Ego at 26 he was having trouble addressing his friend. “Please. Take the Crown off.”

“Oh fine.” The Crown dematerialized, and suddenly it was if Harald could breathe again. “There? Better?”

Anna seized her goblet and hurled it at Vic, who darted aside, arms outraised as wine splashed all over him. “You—you brute! You murderer! How could you?”

“What the actual fuck?” Vic leaped to his feet to gaze at his wine-soaked tunic in dismay.

“Tell me what happened,” Harald commanded, voice pitched low and lethal. “Now.”

“He murdered Melisende,” snapped Anna. “Then stabbed me through the leg and forced me to give him the Crown and Master.”

Harald rose to his feet. “You… stabbed? Anna?”

“It was just a little stabbing,” protested Vic in annoyance. “Because she wasn’t being smart. Melisende had an Artifact, this pendant here, that made her almost impossible to influence and completely unwilling to bend knee. You should have seen how terribly it was going, Harry, Anna was practically begging her to be nice. If I hadn’t intervened, she’d have handed us over to Melisende on a silver platter.”

“We were negotiating,” snarled Anna. “You never had any intention of letting this matter succeed. You wanted her dead from the moment you walked in here.”

“Oh, I was ready to be surprised,” protested Vic. “But was I? Not at all. She refused the oversight council ,to be limited in any way, demanded to be made a queen in truth, and darling? You knew, you knew that I’d never settle for the City Council to be neatly swapped for a power-mad queen.”

“Vic.” Harald drew closer, moving slowly, his voice soft. “You murdered Melisende and then stabbed Anna?”

Vic became instantly aware of the danger he was in and backed away. “Harry, think big picture here. We’ve got Josse in our corner, and he’s far more biddable than Melisende would ever be. Yseult’s been brought to heel. House Celestara is ours.”

“What about House Emberfell, Vic?” Harald kept after him, feeling light headed. “Remember what Doran Blaze said? What he’d do if we killed Melisende?”

“Well boo hoo to poor ol’ Doran Blaze,” said Vic, tone turning caustic. “Did one of his privileged peers get hurt? Too fucking bad. And I know what that means. I’m not an idiot. Which is why, Harry, we’re going to martial all of House Celestara’s forces and attack House Emberfell now while we can still ambush them.”

“Ambush them?” Harald was still slowly pursuing Vic around the table. “They were meant to be our allies.”

Vic sneered. “No noble House will ever be our ally, Harald. Grow the fuck up. They’re the ones who ruined everything to begin with. It’s preposterous that you’d even think they would be willing to help, to make things better. Ludicrous. Child-like. They are the problem. So yes: we reach out, we tell them all went well, we arrange for a meeting, then we kill Blaze, and keep killing until we find someone like Josse who’ll do as we say and bring House Emberfell to heel.”

Vic stopped his retreat and faced Harald fully. “And that’s what we’ll keep on doing. One by one we’ll decapitate each snake and enlist its rank and file to do what’s right. Is it pretty? Is it nice? No. But grow the fuck up already. It’s what we need to do.”

Harald stopped before Vic and met the man’s glare head on. Incredulity and horror warred with resignation and despair. Because a part of him, a hungry, furious, endlessly insatiable part of him knew the other man was right. Knew in his bones that the nobles of the six Houses would never agree to bend knee. That this attempt had been desperate and probably doomed to failure.

Vic saw it in his eyes, and his expression became one of triumph. “That’s why I love you, Harry. You’re smart. You straddle both worlds. Noble and cad. You’ve got a Demon Seed just like me, and it won’t let us lie to ourselves. We need to tear this city down to the foundations so we can rebuild it just right. You and me together, my friend. We’ll change the world.”

Fast, so fast Harald didn’t even register the impulse, he slammed his fist across Vic’s jaw and set the man sprawling into the table. Vic lay still, hand to his face, then recoiled and turned to glare up at Harald, eyes slitted.

“You’ve given us no choice,” hissed Harald. “As you well know. It doesn’t matter whether you’re right about Flutic. We’ll never find out otherwise now.” Harald loomed over the other man, and unwittingly triggered Thronebound Mantle along with Aura of the Aching Depths and Shadow Dominion. The darkness at the edges of the room writhed as if whipped, and Harald felt himself become a manifestation of the void, his fury so cold it burned. “And if you ever. Ever. Hurt Anna or another member of our crew, I will kill you myself.”

Vic remained utterly still, watching through slitted eyes. Finally he untangled himself from the chair he’d crashed into and retreated a few steps, a mocking smile returning to his busted lip. “Oh, that’s understood, Harald. Don’t you worry. But understand this: where you only care about yourself and our friends, I’m willing to die for the people of Flutic. Does that make me noble? Maybe. But I’m going to see this through. This adventure that you started?” Vic’s voice grew hollow with power as the Twilight Crown and Aureate Master returned to his form, imbuing him with impossible dignity and vast authority. He spoke as if with the might of the Fallen Angel herself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to bring it to its righteous conclusion.” His eyes blazed as he sneered again. “I will save this city, I will raise its people, I will bring justice to the streets and justice to the six noble Houses.” His eyes glittered with febrile light. “No matter the cost.”