Spring thaw came. Under Prince Etianiel’s command, the disparate standing armies that now belonged to the crown marched north to retake Siu Ferel. The king headed for Thornfield for the yearly grafting, and the rest of the royal household made the half-frozen, half-mud-soaked trek back to Siu Rial, the City of Blood.

Clarencio welcomed the move. Though he had mostly recovered, and the bloody handkerchiefs and spit buckets and even the carrying chair he’d had to use a few times had been removed, every inch of his family’s Siu Carinal residence seemed to fester with memories of his winter’s convalescence. Even the stony darkness of the bastion-like Siu Rial home would be a welcome change.

The endless ride was a trial to endure, trapped in the carriage for the majority of every night, but he climbed out to exercise and work the cramps from his leg and back whenever the train of coaches ahead of him became stuck and had to dig out.

His steward, Jarik, had arrived in Siu Rial a week in advance with a small portion of the staff, so by the time Clarencio dragged himself from the carriage and up the two torturous stairs to the House Mattius residence, a hot meal in the fire-warmed dining room awaited, and a soothing bath was on the way.

It was the promise of stretching out on a real bed that Clarencio most looked forward to, however. Little as he’d done on the way besides twiddle his thumbs, perch on carriage seats, and massage the pain in his leg, traveling had left him exhausted. He nearly nodded off in the bath as the hot water pacified the aches and pains of the road.

“Out already, your lordship?” Jarik asked as Clarencio limped into the corridor.

“Even I know when it’s time to lay down somewhere I won’t drown.”

The steward signaled to a serving boy to empty the bathwater, then followed the crippled lord, fussing with the collar of Clarencio’s robe.

“Leave it,” Clarencio said, a little sharper than he’d intended. He forced a lighter tone. “I’m not dressing for a feast. In fact, in five minutes, I hope not to be sensate at all.”

“Shall I remain abovestairs tonight in case your lordship requires assistance?”

Meaning Clarencio wasn’t getting around nearly as well as he thought he was. Hard to believe, considering he was practically crawling.

“That won’t be necessary.” At Jarik’s hesitation, Clarencio smiled. “I’ll be skipping and frolicking again by nightfall, you’ll see.”

The older man frowned.

Clarencio sighed. “The bell rope is practically on my pillow here. You’ll hear from me if I require anything, I swear to it.”

Reluctantly, the steward bowed and retired for the day.

Clarencio finished his trek to the windowless bedchamber, thankfully without collapsing.

There was a fire in the grate, but no one had lit the lamp on the bedside table. Perhaps Jarik had taken on a new hire and forgotten to mention that his lordship preferred to read until he fell asleep.

Just as well. He didn’t need a book to put himself out tonight.

He wedged his walking stick between the bedframe and the feather mattress, then leaned against the scrollworked post to disrobe.

Fabric whispered behind him, opposite the hangings on the bed.

Clarencio spun on his heel, shoving his robe out in front while his free hand groped for his stick.

The silk ripped beneath a blade. A body crashed into him. Together, they slid off the bed post and fell onto the mattress in a tangle of legs and arms. The walking stick gave a muffled thump, then rolled across the carpeted stone floor, out of reach.

Clarencio wrestled to lever the attacker off him. Without the use of his leg, it was nearly impossible to get leverage.

A bewildering stream of hot blood poured forth from the man’s throat, showering Clarencio’s face and chest. The attacker thrashed, his movements weakening, until finally, he stilled. In death, the man’s weight seemed to double.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Then the weight lifted. With a muffled thump, the body was tossed to the floor.

Clarencio rolled to the floor as well and snatched up his walking stick, heart thundering. He wished he had a rapier. Why didn’t he keep a rapier in his bedchamber anymore? He always had as a young man.

A cloaked shadow crossed to the fire. “I would’ve killed him sooner, but I wasn’t sure if he was yours.”

The lamp flared to life. Saint Daven sat it on the bedside table, then stepped back.

Clarencio slumped back against the corner post at the foot of the bed, every muscle in his body going limp and shaky. The cooling blood made him shiver. He forced himself to unclench his fist around the walking stick, then picked up the robe with the dagger still tangled in it and wiped some of the wet from his face.

“How long was he here?”

“I don’t know. He got here before I did. Don’t cut yourself on that knife, it’s probably poisoned.”

Clarencio glared at the former Thorn. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“That was fast work with the robe.” Saint Daven plucked the dagger out of the cloth, turning it over to study the sticky substance painted along the edge.

“Yes, well, I’m particularly wary of attackers coming at me from behind these days.” Clarencio draped the bloody robe across his legs to regain some sense of security. Nothing made a man feel quite as vulnerable as being attacked while naked.

The fight was over, but the moment the adrenaline wore off, Clarencio knew he would be in a world of pain. He dragged himself onto the bed before he was incapable of doing it, then assessed his surroundings.

He didn’t recognize the dead man. The roughspun clothing and crude dagger suggested a common thug. Had Lord Kariot finally decided his son’s indiscretion was far enough in the past that Clarencio could be attacked without fear of accusation? Or had another lord taken advantage of the likely association with Kariot to send in a goon? Zinote could be taking revenge for having his motion blocked for so long and so many of his allies stolen. Lord Mosole, too, had become bitter enough since word got out that Clarencio was marrying Princess Kelena instead of his daughter Arianne.

House Mattius had no shortage of enemies these days.

Saint Daven stood there, watching him with those unnerving gold eyes. A timely, unwanted savior. The clothing he’d left in during the previous summer had taken a considerable beating over the past year, and his boots were caked in mud from the road.

“Tell me this is a victorious return and not that you’re here to report that you were unable to make it across the border,” Clarencio said.

Saint Daven pulled a missive from his threadbare jacket and held it out.

For a moment, all Clarencio could do was stare at the vellum envelope. An unfamiliar seal was stamped in gold-flecked wax that shimmered in the lamplight.

He hadn’t realized until that very moment how little faith he’d had in any part of this endeavor. Sure, he had thrown every ounce of his efforts into writing the first letter—he was Josean-blessed; pouring his might into every task he undertook was in his nature—but he had secretly been certain it would fail. The letter would be intercepted, the messenger shot, the author hanged. Or the communication would be received and immediately rejected by the Helat, again, dead messenger. Any number of possible iterations that ended in failure.

Ever the embodiment of patience, when Clarencio didn’t take the missive, Saint Daven tossed it onto the bed beside him.

“Read it or don’t. My job is done. They don’t want a Khinet-born carrying the correspondence. They said they’ll send their own messenger for your response.”

Clarencio wiped the drying blood from his hands onto his covers and picked up the missive.

It had weight to it. An unconditional rejection could have been contained to a single line.

“How will he find me?”

Saint Daven nodded at the envelope in Clarencio’s hand. “The information’s in there.”

“You read it?”

“I don’t carry messages I haven’t read anymore.”

Now that he was looking for it, Clarencio could see where the seal had been broken and reheated. He had to fight the urge to ask what it said.

“Who wrote it? How did you get to them?”

Saint Daven shrugged. “It took some convincing to show them I wasn’t there to cut down as many of them as I could. Not that they trust me much more now. I imagine I’ve been watched on the return trip and that you’ll be getting a visit soon.”

Clarencio stared down at the missive a moment longer, then reached for the bell rope.

Saint Daven moved toward the door.

“Wait,” Clarencio said, pulling the bell. “I don’t have any coin up here, but Jarik will bring something from the coffers.”

There was that ticking jaw muscle again. “I don’t want your money.”

“Do you think I care what you want? Grafted or not, you’re still a slave for as long as you allow them to use you like one. You did a job. Accept pay like a man.”

Jarik’s discreet scratch came at the chamber door.

The first spasm wracked Clarencio’s leg then, and it was a long minute before he could do anything but grit his teeth and hammer on his leg. By the time it had passed, Saint Daven had disappeared.

“Your lordship?” Jarik called through the door.

The chamber door swung open, admitting the worried steward. He nearly tripped over the body in his haste to get to Clarencio.

“Light burn me!” Jarik gasped. “What happened here?”

Behind the white-faced steward, the door pulled closed seemingly under its own power. The Thorn was gone.

“All this blood!” Jarik clutched at the collar of his own dressing gown, which was pristine and unrumpled despite his rush to answer the summons. “I’ll fetch the healer.”

“No need, I’m unhurt,” Clarencio said, massaging the next round of agony as it rolled up his leg. “I just need assistance getting to the washstand. And could you send up someone to take out this rubbish?”