A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2) Page 6

  Sera took it. “Pointy sent this?”

  “Yes, majesty. Just before he, ah, went on a trip. With an apprentice I admire very much.”

  Sera swallowed. They had made it out then. Good. “You know this apprentice.”

  Scrivenor smiled. “I consider that apprentice family.”

  A memory triggered.

  Sera, about eight, peeked into Frank’s bedroom through the gap of an ajar door.

  Teenaged Frank hurled a plate at a mirror, which cracked in a spider’s web. Pieces of glass crashed to the ground, and shards slid over the marble floor.

  Mehrad, Frank’s oldest friend, gaped at the destruction, hands stretched out like a shield.

  Frank was red-faced, hair dishevelled, his gaze vicious. He threw a cup at Mehrad, who ducked just in time. The cup smashed on the floor, and Frank reached to the table behind him for the saucer. “I’ll destroy you for this! I considered you family!”

  “Majesty?” Scrivenor frowned.

  “Uhm.” Sera blinked a few times, back in the present.

  She’d forgotten about Frank’s temper. No, not forgotten. For so many years, she’d kept the secret of Cara from her brother. Other people in similar circumstances might have rushed to enlist the aid of their siblings, but she’d never even considered it. Not until a few months before she was to be sent to the palace, when she’d been weak with worry over what would happen to Cara when she was gone.

  Frank had learned Sera had been hiding something—how, she still didn’t know—and had convinced her he wasn’t her enemy. So, she’d buried her old distrust of him, and had clued him in on her greatest secret. And he’d been so gracious about it. So good. He’d been such a wonderful big brother to Cara, to Sera, and for the first time, she’d fully trusted him.

  Then, he’d ‘died’, and as it went with the dead, she’d remembered and celebrated only the best parts of him.

  But what if she’d been wrong? She’d also trusted Celestine, and look how that had turned out. So many lies, so many manipulations, perfectly executed to keep Sera in the dark. What if Frank was just like Celestine?

  Maybe she was overreacting. Her thoughts were probably tainted by her worry over Kida, the state of Aelland, and her lack of sleep. Dread clotted her blood. Shit. Sera loved Frank—he was her brother—but a strange darkness had always lived in his heart, hidden just under his smile. What if his time spent outside the Mantle, alone with Celestine, had done no more than mature that darkness?

  She cleared her throat. “Are they safe on this journey?”

  Scrivenor cocked his head, as though he knew she hadn’t voiced the worry building on the tip of her tongue. “Pointy wouldn’t let a hair on the young one’s head be scathed.”

  Sera nodded. Creator keep them, even if that meant keeping them from Frank.

  “If there is—”

  “No.” Sera shook the envelope. “I’ll just read this.”

  “Majesty, I must warn you, the letter comes with someone other than me. Pointy said you should talk.” Scrivenor opened the door and Laroche entered.

  Kida was in his arms.

  He’d found her. Sera opened her mouth, but she was unable to utter a sound. What now? Why would Pointy send Laroche, of all people? Pointy was supposed to be good.

  Laroche lowered Kida gently to the ground.

  She arched her back and tail in a languid stretch, then sauntered towards Sera with a soft meow.

  Sera dropped to her knees to pick up Kida. This time, no relief came from holding the furry body, only fear. Did she thank him, this murderer parading as her father? What would his assistance cost? He did nothing without the game in mind, he’d taught her that. “Where did you find her?”

  “George had her in his suite. Be wary of him.” Laroche clapped his teeth together. Whenever he squared his jaw this way, the asymmetry of his face was accentuated.

  “You don’t say.” She strained to keep her voice level, calm, but her muscles bunched, and her pulse raced.

  “I’ll be in the palace,” Scrivenor said. “Just a call away, majesty.”

  Laroche motioned to the envelope as he closed the door behind Scrivenor. “Read it.”

  Sera shuddered but kept her shoulders straight and her chin up. She stroked Kida’s back then lowered her to the bed and opened the envelope. At the front of the sheets of folded paper was a letter. The script was elegant, grand, and written in Mordian, on gold-embossed stationery from the office of Jean-Luc Du Pont.

  Her Royal Highness, Seraphine of Aellor,

  Allow me this opportunity to emphatically clarify that Mordian Intelligence is fully functional and has always been at your complete disposal.

  The Director of Intelligence, Jacques Du Pont, is currently in Mordoux with your sister. In my son’s absence, I will provide anything you require. We are yours to command, majesty. Had we, too, not been deceived, this fact would have been known to you since birth.

  I implore you to listen to Grand Duke Laroche. The distrust you have of him is understandable, but the tale he is about to share with you is true. Please see the accompanying records from my personal files. Additionally, I beg of you to leave the palace immediately. You are in grave danger, and I cannot risk your life any longer. I doubt our young queen would look kindly upon us if we allowed you to be harmed while she’s away in the motherland.

  Yours cordially,

  Duke Jean-Luc Du Pont.

  Sera’s fingers shook as she paged through the documents.

  Identification. Celestine Chastain, codename Clarity. Mordian Intelligence. Traitor, missing.

  Henri Chastain, codename Passenger, Mordian Intelligence. Traitor, deceased.

  Jean-Augusté Laroche, codename Raven, alias the Court Assassin, Mordian Intelligence. Active duty, protection of the queen.

  She struggled to keep her face composed. Her ribs strained, and her lungs wouldn’t take air.

  Documents on an organisation called the Sanctus Sect, who disembowelled Mordian citizens and filled their stomach cavities with rocks—like Frank had supposedly died. Transcripts of overheard conversations and threads of evidence attempting to tie George to this organisation. Reports that claimed he must be a member, but there was no proof.

  Documents on how Laroche had taken up the identity of the Court Assassin. How he’d eliminated members of the sect who had come to kill Sera and had dressed them in the same way as the sect dressed their victims, to keep the Aellish populace from the truth.

  According to this, he’d done it all to keep her safe. According to this, he was her father. A hero to the people of Mordoux.

  These documents proved everything Celestine had ever said had been a lie. Everything. She’d abducted Frank. She’d made it seem he’d been killed, but he’d likely gone willingly.

  On Chastain’s word, Sera and Cara had mourned the death of their brother, but their father hadn’t shed a tear. Not because he was a monster, as she’d believed. He’d known the truth—Frank had gone to Mordoux with Celestine. And instead of following them to save Frank, he’d had to stay in Roicester with his imposter daughter, because his mission was to keep her safe.

  Was this evidence that Laroche never would have harmed Cara, had he known she existed? He hadn’t killed his wife, nor Frank. He had tried to kill Celestine, yes, but only because she was the traitor. The monster. Every other life he had taken had been to save Sera’s.

  But what about the slums? He’d planned to burn it all, and that had nothing to do with her safety.

  Tears ran unchecked down Sera’s cheeks. Her voice was harsh. “Why?”

  His mouth twitched into a smile, but his eyes were glazed. His jaw clenched, and every vein in his red face bulged.

  Why what? Why had he ordered the slums to burn? Why had he threatened her? Why hadn’t he told her the truth? Why all of that and then some. Maybe why was the best question she could possibly ask. Maybe it covered everything.

  “I didn’t understand,” he said. “That day in the early
spring. A Thirdday. You were ten. You left the house as my little girl, and you came back a stranger. Every other day, you ran into my arms, laughing. Warm and bright as the sun. But that day you were ashen, wild-eyed. You ran right around me, to your room. You refused to speak to me, and when you couldn’t avoid me, you were afraid. I didn’t understand.”

  “She said you’d kill me.” Sera retreated a step when he reached out. “This doesn’t explain anything! You threatened me. Constantly. I hated you. Maybe I still do. Why?”

  “You were sixteen when I learned Celestine was behind it all. A plot to kill the king, overthrow Intelligence, and eradicate the Du Ponts. For Frank, she’d said. She’d had an elaborate plan to put him on the throne, and to make you the most powerful woman in Aelland. The regent, in fact, when the time came, and he united the Seven Kingdoms. I told her she was mad, but even then, she must’ve known the Mantle was weakening. She had to…

  “Anyway, she struck first, and I defended myself, but I won’t deny I found unspeakable satisfaction when my dagger sank into her flesh. She’d taken Frank from me, and she was taking you.” He leaned back on the door, head tilted to the ceiling. “But of course, you’d walk in just as her blood began to run. You wouldn’t listen.”

  Her earlier recollection of Frank must’ve wiggled free one of the stones in the wall she’d built around traumatic events, and that wall now crashed down. Fragmented memories escaped their prison. Images of Laroche behind Celestine, her mouth open, blood dripping in a puddle around her feet. Her face shifted when she met Sera’s gaze—a smile.

  Once, that smile had been special. A last goodbye from a loving grandmother. But now? It had been a smile of victory, not love. In that moment, Celestine had destroyed any chance of a reconciliation between Laroche and Sera.

  Memories of Laroche begging her. Pleading. ‘She was a traitor, Seraphine. She wanted to kill the king. I had to protect you!’

  He was right—she had refused to listen. How many times had Celestine said her father was a ruthless killer? How many times had she sworn he would hurt her and Cara if he knew the truth? And in an ill-timed moment, he had become all Celestine had never been able to prove he was.

  Laroche came with documents, allies. Facts. Celestine had used her word, and Chastain’s. A pair of silly, impressionable girls had gobbled it up as gospel.

  Just to be broken.

  Had Chastain’s madness been a result of the same cycle of abuse? A scary thought.

  “You wouldn’t believe I wasn’t a villain,” Laroche said. “But my mission as a father, as a member of Intelligence, was to keep you safe. And if I had to keep you safe in fear, the job would still be done. So, I became the villain.” He wiped his eyes, then dried his hands on his trousers. “I was ashamed, because I love you. I have always loved you, my bright flame.”

  She crumpled to the ground. “Why did you keep me from Pointy and the others?”

  “That?” He laughed without mirth. “Do you think I’d want them to know how I terrorised my own daughter? Do you think I’m proud of what I’ve done? Besides. It was too late, and probably still is. Because you feared me, I could protect you. That was all that mattered.”

  She stared at the ground, willed her muscles to relax. She shook. Every breath was painful, sharp. “And the slums?”

  “Don’t you hate me enough already?”

  “Why?”

  He sighed deeply. “Intelligence has no reach in the slums. One hovel disappears, then three others are stacked where it used to be. People vanish, then re-emerge with new identities. But you’ve probably already guessed the most important part. No?” His lips pulled to one side. “The Sanctus Sect is based in the slums, in the one place where Intelligence couldn’t get to them. The fires would’ve killed innocents. Thousands of them. I’m well aware it would’ve been mass murder on my command. I doubt I’d ever have slept again, but it was an opportunity to rid Aelland of the greatest threat to you, and all Mordian citizens. For them—for you—I’d have faced a lifetime of self-loathing.”

  Sera’s mouth tasted sour. He’d gone and done it. Found a way to make his would-be destruction of the slums about her.

  “Forgive me.” He knelt before her, head pressed to the carpet. “I wronged you and have wanted to beg your forgiveness for so many years. I don’t deserve it, I know. But please, if you could find a way to trust me again, I—”

  “I need time.” So much time. How did one piece together a shattered life? She shut off her mind and closed her eyes. She wanted to be invisible, like Cara. Just once. Not a queen, not a player of the game, not the adopted daughter of a killer.

  Silence stretched between them in passing ages.

  He studied her. Expression blank, hollow-eyed.

  If she were to go to the Du Pont estate, Laroche would come, too. He was tasked with her protection, after all. No matter how she wanted freedom, Sera would never escape him. Was that what she wanted?

  No. Never. And yet, maybe.

  Maybe, now that they had been broken down, they could build each other back up. Or at least build something new.

  Seraphine Laroche was a queen. A player of the game. The daughter of a killer. She stood to tower over him, as he’d so loved to do with her. “You won’t ever lie to me again.”

  “I swear on my life.”

  “Your life is worthless.”

  He closed his eyes. “Then I swear on hers.”

  Sera froze. No. He couldn’t know. “Who do you mean?”

  The colour drained from his face and transformed him into a wraith. “They say you have a sister. Carabelle.” He barked a laugh. “And I thought Chastain had visited an apprentice, a boy, but it was my— Your sister.”

  No. This couldn’t be happening. Even with all the documents, the proof, Laroche learning about Cara was the most dangerous thing of all. Sera’s entire life had been dedicated to this event never coming to pass, but she’d failed. For how long had he known? Shit, shit, shit!

  Sera grabbed the closest vase and shattered it on the wall. “Get out. Get the hell out!”

  He bowed. “Majesty.”

  Bile rose in her throat. “Get. Out!”

  He left, and Laura rushed into the room.

  Sera vomited until she was depleted, sobbing hysterically, then lay on her back on the hard tiles by the latrine. Laura sat with her, rubbing Sera’s hand.

  He knew. Twenty-one years, and he finally knew.

  “My queen, what’s going on? I don’t understand any of this. What does he know?” Laura’s voice was small. She’d lost some colour, and a chunk of black hair had come loose from her bun.

  Had Sera spoken aloud? A dire mistake.

  But was it? Laroche knew the truth, and Cara was off where only the Creator could see, safe from the chaos in Aelland. Safe from everything Sera had been raised to fear. Unless she was supposed to count Frank as someone to fear, but Sera didn’t have the capacity to deal with that yet. Laura was the only other friend Sera had ever had, and she trusted her with every aspect of her life. Why not this?

  “I need to tell you something, darling. Everything.”

  Chapter 7

  Lance rubbed his hands together. The dungeon was icy and dank, rancid where some of the slummers had dropped and died in their cells. Otherwise, it wasn’t too bad.

  Judging by the meals he’d been fed, this was the tenth or eleventh day of his incarceration. The jailers thought they were starving the slummers with the prison rations, but it was a feast when compared to their food back home.

  Home. While the riot had come to Roicester, the other classes must have retaliated. From what the prison guards said, there was civil war. Was there anything left of the slums? And with everyone dead or gone, was it still home?

  The cell was of such a shape and size that all Lance could do was sit upright or lie on his back on the thin, piss-reeking mattress. Standing was out of the question. At least it was wide enough that he could perform his bodily functions to one side and sleep
on the other.

  He could see like an owl in the dark now. Life without a nose would be interesting, sure. Dust was a bitch, and constantly irritated his airways, while food didn’t taste as it used to. Which might not be a bad thing, where prison slop was concerned. It was quiet without the Mantle buzzing close by, but he’d grown used to it. Meanwhile, his wounds no longer bled, and Doc Masters had taught him the signs of infection. So far, he’d been lucky, and it seemed he would avoid complications. The time he spent here, with enough food and little other to do than sleep, was just what he needed to recover.

  Of course, he’d likely gain strength just to be tried for his crimes.

  The slummers who had been caught during the riot had been thrown into the dungeons below the palace. Most of them had since died, and the rest were forgotten. The prisoners were fed, and the corpses dragged out—occasionally—but the execution Lance had been certain of did not come. With the war and infected hordes, the king probably didn’t have the capacity to put the slummers to justice. For now. At some point, his status would change from prisoner to corpse; hanged or quartered. Or both, if he was unlucky.

  What the slummers had done had been violent, but it had been needed.

  They’d failed in their primary mission, but who could have foreseen that Lance and the others would enter the palace only to find the royals missing? Safe somewhere, far away from their boiling illness. While many were sick or dying, the king had escaped his fate. Nobody had deserved rot as much as he, but as it went with the wealthy and powerful, he’d live to oppress another day. Puck had died for this. As had Doc Masters.

  Lance had come with an army of slummers: infected, not infected, survivors. Children. How many of them were nameless corpses in a ditch? And the slum-rat, Sunshine, was he still in here somewhere? He’d carried that toy all the way to Roicester—the one that must have belonged to one of the other kids he’d fought that day for a piece of bread. Somewhere in the madness, the toy had to have been torn or lost.