“So we will.” Jusson gestured at the arsenal laid out on the table. “Whoever doesn’t have a weapon can choose from those. I suggest that you choose wisely.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Though the king had earlier given folks the choice to stay behind, there weren’t any takers. The fact that the sorcerer and his demon had been able to reach into the king’s house with ease didn’t make it seem the safe haven it once was, and those who were unarmed mobbed the table. It was only by Thadro’s intervention that some weren’t weighted down with as many weapons as they could carry. It was decided to leave Gwynedd in the guards’ mess. She lay unmoving on the cot, her eyes still showing white, her breathing still harsh. Even so, Cais wasn’t taking any chances, locking and sealing the door and windows with sprigs of rowan, and then posting two servants as guards outside the door. There was some discussion of also leaving Laurel, Wyln, Dyfrig and me. However, we all forcibly refused to remain behind. Laurel, Wyln and I decided that though we might be blocked in the talent, swords and claws worked just fine, while Dyfrig again clutched his Staff of Office as if it were a quarterstaff. “Besides, Rabbit and I still have the truth rune, honored folk,” Laurel pointed out. “That is a potent weapon in and of itself.”
Jusson sent for those on the roof and they met us in the entryway, the watchmen quickly finding Chadde, the armsmen their masters, the Own joining the rest of the royal guards. Jeff pushed his way to me.
“Did you hear that unearthly wailing?” Jeff asked. “What happened?”
“We’re going to fight,” I said as I counted heads of the guard. While I didn’t know their names, their faces had become familiar—and I knew that even if we survived there would be gaps in their ranks. Already some were missing, and I wondered if I would be the one to write letters telling of sons and brothers who would never come home.
Jeff scowled at me. “That’s bloody obvious—” He broke off as Jusson climbed a couple of steps on the main staircase. Everyone quieted quickly and the king turned to Dyfrig, motioning for the doyen to join him on the steps.
“We don’t have time for long prayers, Your Reverence,” he said, “but if you would, please bless us. Something short, but potent.”
Still clutching his Church staff, Dyfrig drew in a deep breath, his face troubled. “Your Majesty—”
“Is there a problem, Your Reverence?” Jusson asked.
Dyfrig looked around at all the faces turned to him and he let his breath out in a sigh. “No, Your Majesty,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong.” Not moving from where he stood, the doyen lowered his head and recited something straight out of the Church’s book of prayers. When he finished, there was silence, with everyone looking more perplexed than blessed.
Jusson tapped his hand on the banister, reclaiming our attention. The king looked over everyone, his gaze alighting on a face for a moment, before moving on, and I wondered if he were also thinking on the gaps that would be there after today. We stared somberly back.
“I suppose that if this were a heroic tale,” Jusson said, “this is where I would make a speech about how we’re fighting on the side of good against the forces of evil. But why state the obvious? This is also where I’d go over the plan of attack. It is very simple—keep your eyes open and stay close to me. We are going to try for the stables and our horses. If that doesn’t work, we will go to the garrison afoot. If we’re unable to do that, we will rally at the Kingsgate.”
No one said anything, and Jusson’s mouth crooked. “Here we go, then. For God and kingdom. May He have mercy on our souls.”
Jusson stepped down off the stairs and moved to the door, his quick steps muted on the black-and-white tiles. Cais slid through the quiet mob to join him, his hand on the knob as he waited for the king’s signal. The king nodded at the majordomo, who lifted the bar across the door and began undoing the locks. After a moment, the door swung open and the sun spilled into the foyer and the king became a dark shadow outlined in light. Instead of sending the Own out ahead of him, Jusson had walked out first. While the foyer was a defender’s dream, it was an offensive nightmare and it only would take a few armed with crossbows to pick us off one by one, beginning with the king. With muffled cries, everyone surged at the same time and it took a few terrifying moments for me to reach the doorway. Then I was out the door and hurrying down the front steps—only to come to a halt, blocking those behind me. The street was filled. There was Albe the blacksmith, Kresyl the baker, Danel the postilion, the Hart’s innkeeper, his son and several of his serving maids. There were folks who were in Theater Square two days ago during the aborted play, who rioted when I’d been released from jail that same day, who angrily mobbed us as we returned from the Copper Pig yesterday afternoon, who ran to the charnel house fire yesterday eve, who witnessed the fight with the revenant last night and who grieved at the funeral pyres of the church clerks, Keeve and Tyle, in the small hours of this morning.
All bowing to the king.
“We’ve all heard how we’ve been beset, Your Majesty,” Albe said as he straightened.
“Aye,” Kresyl said. “Captain Suiden and Lord Elf speaking in my oven as I was baking. Damn near dropped my loaves.”
“In my candles as I stitched,” a woman said.
“The fireplace in my common room,” the innkeeper said.
All around the street, people called out about hearing Wyln’s talk with Suiden in cookfires, braziers and, in one case, a man’s pipe.
Albe gestured to his two apprentices standing behind him. “We heard it in our forge.” The blacksmith smiled, his teeth flashing white in his dark beard, and he hefted his hammer. “And we figured that we could stay inside and hope that it’d all go away, or come outside and make sure that it does.”
Wyln and I looked at each other, the enchanter’s tilted eyes rounding a little, before we turned to survey the number of townspeople who had the fire aspect.
“So many,” Laurel breathed, also surveying the newly discovered talent-born. “How many, I wonder, have earth?”
Or water and air, I thought.
Jusson, however, was uninterested in untrained talent. Instead, his smile mirrored the blacksmith’s.
“An excellent sentiment, Master Albe,” the king said. ‘Tell me, does anyone know where Helto is?”
There was a rippling wave as a sea of arms pointed to the center of town.
“The main square, Your Majesty,” the innkeeper said. “Saw him heading there myself with all the town rowdies and skull-crushers. Little rodent.”
“Yeah,” Danny put in. “Master Rat took your horses and carriages too.” The innkeeper thumped him in the side and the postilion jumped, turning red. “Um, Your Majesty,” he added.
“I see,” Jusson said. He turned his smile on those of us crowding behind him. “My lords and gracious sirs. There’s been a change in plans.”
Chapter Thirty-six
It was a perfect fall morning. The sky was deep blue, the air crisp, the light soft and golden as the sun rose above the autumn-splashed mountains. Yesterday, the streets had been full of bustle and cheer as the people of Freston prepared for the end of the harvest and the coming feast day. Now the streets were empty and the cheerful commotion gone, with the unnatural silence wrapping around us like wet wool, muffling the jingle of our chainmail and the thud of our boots against the cobblestones. The familiar scents of the town were gone too. Instead it smelled damp and a little stale, like a room long closed—or another place where nothing stirred and the air hung still and musty: the grave.