She took a deep breath, and held her gaze straight ahead, defying her greatest urge to take a direct look. That would only alarm the Greenie. Instead, she slashed out with her sword.

A cry of pain from the shadows confirmed her instinct had been true, and she laughed in triumph. Now she spun toward the Greenie, just in time for another suit of armor to topple down on her.

It took Jendara some moments to realize she was on the floor. Her body hurt, pummeled as it was by age-old plate armor. She groaned and pushed the breast piece away and untangled herself from the arms and legs.

She felt around for her sword on hands and knees, and her hand fell into something wet. She brought her fingers to her lips and dabbed them with her tongue. Blood!

Jendara raised herself to her feet and trotted back to the lit corridor. She grabbed a candle and took it into the dim corridor. She found her sword next to the twisted wreckage of armor. She looked in satisfaction at the blood on its tip, and the drips of blood leading in a trail down the corridor. Candle and sword in hand, she followed the trail like a hound on a scent.

BLOOD TRAIL

Karigan leaned in a darkened doorway, sucking in painful breaths. One hand clutched the door frame, the other closed on the wound beneath her ribs. It was not too deep, but it bled profusely and stung painfully.

Dim light glowed in an adjacent corridor, but she had to drop the invisibility to preserve any energy she had left. The slash to her side was not helping matters. She looked down, and in the darkness, discerned an even darker stain spreading across the front of her shirt. Crimson oozed between her fingers and pattered on the floor.

She leaned her head against the door frame and tried to catch her breath. Sweat poured down her face and burned her eyes. It would not be long before Jendara found her. She feared she would have to confront her this time, in a clash she had little hope of winning.

Light shimmered at the far end of the corridor. No time to rest. She shook off her light-headedness and reached to touch her brooch. It was her only—

Disembodied hands reached from behind through the darkness of the doorway. One clamped over her mouth before she could utter a scream, and the other grabbed her around her chest. Weakly she struggled against the iron grip. It drew her slowly, inexorably inward, into the night dark room behind.

Shhh, someone breathed into her ear.

She began to think she had fallen into the darkness of the unconscious realm, or it was simply the unlit room, but her body fell limp and felt as if it floated upward and away to the night sky, perhaps to the heavens to meet the gods.

Jendara smashed her hand into the wall until her knuckles bled. She had followed the Greenie swiftly, but the blood trail simply ended in the doorway of an empty storeroom. She scoured every inch of the room, but it remained undisturbed. No strange shadows, no invisible presences, no tell-tale drips of blood.

Jendara had to face it: she had failed.

She was thankful she had not told her lord of her little errand. She had no wish to exact more punishment from him. She was tired, so tired. But what else was there? She had been devoted to Amilton and his cause for years. She knew he could be cruel, but he had never punished her before the way he had the night of the silver moon. He was a different man, a different man from the smooth, dashing prince she had sworn her life to protect so long ago.

She had once been an innocent much like the Greenie when she was younger and a swordmaster in training. She was proud to serve Sacoridia and King Amigast. When she became a Weapon assigned to protect Prince Amilton, he swept her away with his charm. She lost her innocence then. She had made a choice. Reflecting on that choice and others, she knew she would still make them if she could do everything over again. That was where she and the Greenie differed, she supposed. The Greenie learned from her mistakes.

She left the empty room and stumped down the corridor, the candlelight like a shield around her.

When she reached the throne room, she found the merchant still sagging on his bench with the cargo master sitting stiff and resolute next to him, his arms crossed. Jendara thrust her bloodied sword tip in front of the merchant. He looked at it with bleary eyes.

“This is the blood of your daughter,” she hissed. “She is no ghost.”

She did not await his reaction and strode down the runner past the thinning ranks of defiant nobles. Among them was her old teacher Devon Wainwright, a mighty warrior in her day, but now blind as a possum and reduced to being Zachary’s advisor in her dotage. Jendara shook her head. She had once admired Devon, but now saw only a wrinkled and bent crone. Jendara did not wish herself such a long life.

Crowe and King Amilton were speaking with a Mirwellian soldier and did not note her presence, for which she was grateful.

“What did they say?” Amilton’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes flashed. Energy crackled about his clenched fists.

“M-monarchy is tyranny, my lord.” The soldier licked his lips and his eyes darted uncertainly from Crowe to Amilton.

“Who are they?”

“The Anti-Monarchy Society, my lord.” It was Castellan Crowe who answered. He leaned on his staff of office, untroubled by the news. “Your brother spoke of them from time to time, but they were a nuisance at best and nothing more. He did order the leader arrested, but didn’t pursue the matter. He became a little more concerned when they found much support in North, but other matters demanded his attention.”

“Do they malign my name?” Amilton asked.

“Yes, my lord,” the soldier said. “They wish to abolish rule by a monarch completely. This they shout into the night, and their leader attracts an audience with her speeches.”