so familiar that Christian might almost have been able to convince himself that none of it had happened at all . . . but for the hard contours of the Queen’s sapphire, lying against his chest.
Something heavy thudded against the door, and a moment later, the blow repeated, with a crunch of wood. They had found a ram.
“Go,” Niya told him, pulling one arm behind her head . . . stretching, Christian realized. Readying herself. He straightened, and his eyes went automatically to the hidden panel behind the Queen’s nightstand. He had explored the length and breadth of the Queen’s Wing now, and this was the best egress point, the closest to the great staircase. He wasn’t even sure that anyone else in the Guard knew about it. If he acted quickly, they might still get away clean.
“Come with me,” he said. “Come with me, you can hide.”
“No,” Niya replied, slipping a blade from her sleeve. She turned to him, her eyes grave, and Christian suddenly remembered who she was: Blue Horizon to the core.
“They will find the panel, Mace. It won’t take them long. You won’t make it out of here, not unless I slow them down. Go, now. Keep her safe, or you will find my ghost behind you with a knife.”
Christian didn’t move. Another blow landed, splintering the door, but still he hesitated, staring at the iron woman before him, the maid with the heart of a Guard.
“Go!” Niya shouted.
As if to counterpoint her order, one of the hinges splintered, giving way with a screech of metal. Christian’s paralysis broke then; he leapt to the head of the bed, shoving the nightstand aside, and tapped the tenth stone up. The hidden door opened, and Christian darted through, then shoved it closed. Even through the stone, he heard the crash behind him as the Queen’s door fell in. Working clumsily with the baby in his arms, he lit the torch Carroll had left, and then he was running, cradling the baby’s head against his shoulder, heading downward into the dark.
Chapter 35
THE DROWNED MAN
One might think that Arlen Thorne met no true resistance until the advent of the Glynn Queen, but this is not strictly true. Long before the Glynn coronation, Thorne was balked . . . only once, certainly, but in a matter so critical that it would eventually lead to his own downfall. In this respect, one might say that the first time paid for all.
—The Early History of the Tearling, as told by Merwinian
Are we ready?” the master asked, for perhaps the tenth time.
“Ready,” Brenna replied, stirring her brazier and staring into its contents. There was nothing yet, but of course there should not be. The palm told certainties; the brazier was for surprises. Brenna expected none of the latter, for the master had planned this to perfection. She only wished to ensure his success.
They had hidden themselves in a room on the third floor of the Drowned Man, a pub that sat just on top of the rise where the Keep Lawn ended. The room commanded a good view of the entire lawn, and it sat high enough that one could see all the way down to the stinking circle of the moat. The publican had been one of the master’s clients for years, and he asked no questions of them, not even when Brenna pushed back the hood of her cloak.
The rebels covered the Keep Lawn in all directions. Brenna sensed the master’s contempt; she no longer wormed into his head on purpose, as she had done when they were children, but his thoughts were not hidden from her either. Now he was thinking how foolish the rebels were, how ridiculously anxious to march toward death. But another part of him, a younger part, was wavering, wondering what it would be like to be part of something, united to the whole. The master would never be one of those believers down there, singing and dancing and celebrating, and a rogue part of his mind could not help wondering how it would feel.
“You are vacillating, master,” Brenna remarked, for this was one of her many functions: to keep the master on track. “It wastes energy. You will need all your focus tonight.”
The master nodded, turning away from the window. As always, Brenna was struck by his austere face: so cold, and yet so beloved. She had been only a child when she chose him, but even then, she had been drawn by that coldness, that