As if in response to my questioning, the room shakes and shudders. Several gasps and whimpers resound, and the oak doors beyond the top of the grand staircase bang open. I reach to draw my sword and clench my fists. I’m not wearing it. Excellent, or as my adoptive father Nathaniel Archer would say in his Third Reflection accent, “Brilliant.”
Of all the days to let down my guard.
Outside, the wind howls. The people cower on either side of the room, but I stand my ground as we watch the doorway in anticipation. I narrow my eyes and crouch, picking up an oversized glass shard before rising once more. It may not be my sword, but it’ll do.
Several Guardians are absent, having evacuated who they could through the tunnels. Those who remain act as medics or consolers. When they notice me they come forward, forming a barricade at the bottom of the dais stairs before me.
A rich cackle echoes just as a figure taller than the grand doors ducks beneath their frame. When the figure straightens to full height—eight feet tall at least—I no longer question the motive of the attack.
The Troll glides forward and down the grand stairs, her Mask form commanding the room. Her scaly dress reveals too much of her leathery golden skin, and I have to force myself not to look away and gag. She’s wearing a cape made of hawk feathers that trails behind her, and I feel for whatever poor animal induced the woman’s wrath. The staff she carries is topped with shards of steel, making it double as a spear.
Not that she needs a weapon. The curling ram’s horns protruding from her head are the sole defense she needs. When I interrogated Ebony Archer two months ago, I discovered her mother, Isabeau, only appears as a Troll when she’s on the warpath. This can’t be good.
Isabeau halts ten paces from the Guardian barricade and twiddles her dragon-like fingernails against her steel-shard staff. “My, my, what an odd way to greet a coronation guest. I was only an hour late, after all.” She sneers, black eyes shifting east and west. Then she palms her chest and throws her head back, giving off another sickly sweet cackle. “Oh, that’s right.” She levels her gaze at me. “I wasn’t invited.”
I grip the glass shard tighter, and blood trickles from my hand onto the floor. I do not hiss or clench my teeth despite the relief my Ever blood fails to provide. I’m accustomed to pain. Still, I’ll need to be more careful until my Calling is functional again. It’s not about what I can endure, but about the strength I’ll need to face whatever comes next.
With a hefty breath I ask, “What is your business here, Troll?”
“My business?” Isabeau paces in a circle. Several guests recoil deeper beneath the tree-stump tables. “Why, to offer the mother of our new ruler my congratulations, of course. Where is dear Elizabeth?” She makes a show of glancing around. “The woman has acquired everything she has ever wanted, has she not? First my husband, and now his brother? I hear they are expecting a child.” She faces me again. “What. Delightful. News.”
I am not oblivious to the Troll’s story, as I heard Ebony go on about it while I was restrained behind the dais wall eleven months previous. Tiernan Archer wanted a son and left Isabeau when she could only give him a daughter. Her grudge against El’s mother runs deep. Because Elizabeth has everything Isabeau doesn’t.
I open my mouth to command the Guardians to seize her, but someone speaks before I have the opportunity.
“You are not welcome here, Troll.” Preacher steps forward, always the first to break formation. “But you’ve done us a favor.” His weapon of choice is a bow and arrows, but today he carries a battle-ax. He raises it high as if about to strike. “We’ve spent months searching for you. Now you’ve come to us”—he snorts—“you’ve made our job a crowe of a lot easier.”
I’m forced to stifle a snort at the Second Reflection slang. I suppose even with Jasyn Crowe dead, his name will live on in the form of a curse.
Isabeau approaches Preacher. He’s the shortest of the Guardians, but his gruff demeanor makes up for his deficient stature. I’m thankful for the distraction, which I know is exactly what Preacher intends it to be. It gives me ample time to form a strategy for capture. With at least a dozen Guardians missing and so many injured subjects present, the feat will be difficult but not impossible. I only need to decipher how to take Isabeau down without harming anyone else.
“What is your name?” Isabeau glares down at Preacher.
“What’s it to you?”
I spot Wade Song beneath one of the tables on the room’s west end. His wife, Lark, has transformed into her owl state, perched on his shoulder like a sentinel. Her brown and white feathers ruffle, a sign she’s prepared to take flight. Their daughter Robyn shields them both, her Bengal tiger coming out to play. She may not be eighteen yet, her Confine still in place, but even with flat teeth and no claws her bite is as ferocious as her growl.
I shift my gaze down and to the left. Wade’s other daughter, Wren, stands as one of a handful of female Guardians in my barricade. Tougher than any other woman I’ve met, Wren is not someone to be trifled with. Her griffin form towers above the Guardians on either side of her.
El’s Mirror song along with my Ever blood failed Kuna, but the Mask Calling, at least, seems to be intact.
I catch Wade’s eye, listing my head and blinking twice. Wade is a Physic, not a Guardian, but being a father of one I am certain he knows the Silent Code. His brow furrows and for an instant I wonder if perhaps he did not understand. I make the signal again and this time he nods.
As Wade begins to tap people on the shoulder, soundlessly directing them to move as far back in the room as they are able, I return my attention to Isabeau and Preacher.
“You’re nothing more than a bully dressed in Troll’s clothing.” Preacher spits on Isabeau’s bare toes. “No wonder Tiernan left you. No man in his right mind would live in a house with that stench.” He pinches his nose and leans away. “Oh, excuse me, you don’t live in a house, do you? I meant no man would live beneath a bridge with that stench.”
Sweat beads at my temples and I’m positive Preacher has gone too far. But the man does not back down, not even when Isabeau raises her hand and claws him square across his bearded chin.
Ah, so her weakness is confirmed. Talk of Tiernan gets to her. I must remember to give my regards to Preacher for his strategy when all is said and done.
“How dare you, a mere peasant, speak to me in this manner.” She brandishes her staff and aims it straight at the Guardian’s chest. “I ought to rip out your heart for such disrespect.” She takes a breath, then steps away, a sunshine smile spreading across her face. Collected once again, she addresses me. “But that is not the reason I have come.”
“Then why have you come?” My words are for her but my peripheral vision attends the people. Most have made their way to the far corners. I exhale.
“To collect payment. Haman—”
“—is no longer of this Reflection,” I finish for her. “I am well aware of his vow to you.” El filled me in, terrified Isabeau would expect her reward despite Haman’s death. “But as you and I both know, a Kiss of Accord is no longer binding if one of the parties passes on.”
“Ah, ah, ah, better check again. For it is here you are in error.”