“That’s one.”
She turned back to the door and studied it. The butterflies that had filled her belly just moments before had settled, and her muscles grew taut with anticipation. She was made for work like this. Her gaze drifted along the door’s surface, searching for the next of the mage women’s machinations. Each channel and crevice held the potential for death, each piece of filigreed decoration could be hiding agony. She searched the midsection, so close to where she had recently placed her hands, then moved on, eying the knob warily. She could see herself reflected in its multitude of facets. Her red-gold hair stood out wildly, above eyes that seemed odd and alien in the diamond’s angles. Seeing nothing, she moved on to the next, more painstaking part of detection. She placed two fingers—infinitesimally gentle—against the knob and began to feel her way along it. There had to be a mechanism, and so long as her movements remained slow and light, she could detect it with her sense of touch without setting it off.
Slowing her breathing to allow herself to hear even the faintest of clicks, she slid her fingers along the top of the doorknob, then along the iron shaft that connected it to the plate that buttressed the gleaming door. She felt for the slightest rise or depression, searching for any anomaly. Just as her fingertips brushed the burnished gold of the doorplate, she heard a soft click, and a tingle went through her. Before she even had time to yank her fingers back, another click, louder and closer, sounded. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh as she fell backward, her heart catching in her throat.
“Holy Aegos,” she groaned as her ass hit the stone floor. She waited, expecting a poisoned dart or the fiery throes of a vicious death mark, but neither came. Instead, the door clicked once more and then swung open.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, dark-skinned young man with long curly hair and an expression of utter surprise on his face. Prince Tollan, royal heir, looked down at her. Behind him loomed the stooped figure of a woman. Long white hair hung in tangles hiding most of her face, which was devoid of emotion.
“Where’s Melnora?”
The rising note of panic in Prince Tollan’s voice made Gemma think, just briefly, that perhaps he was as unsure of his footing as she was. She stood and straightened her tunic, then took one step toward him and knelt on the floor. She forced herself not to think of the mirror-and-gem trap that she had just disarmed, right where she now knelt.
“I … I am sorry, Your Highness,” she stammered, averting her gaze, as she pretended to grapple with the proper way to greet the royal heir. “My queen has taken ill. She was summoned to your father. I am Gemma Antos. I am to be Queen of Under when she is gone.”
The prince’s face fell, his gray eyes growing dark. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you, this, then,” he said as he reached down, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the room after him, “but Melnora was not summoned by my father.” The Golden Door slammed behind her, and all the air rushed out of Gemma’s lungs as she gaped at his hand holding her arm. This was not the way this meeting was supposed to go at all.
“I summoned Melnora,” the prince said gruffly. “King Abram is dead.” He swallowed, looking as stunned by the words as she was.
Gemma met his gaze, disbelief and distaste mingling on her tongue like sour milk.
He must have realized that he still held a stern grip on her upper arm. “Oh, I …” He released her, staring down at his own hand as if it disturbed him. “Sorry.”
The elderly woman shuffled her feet behind him, and he spun. “Oh, yes. Hannai, go back to your room.”
The woman, who Gemma realized must be one of the king’s mage women, stared up at the prince with eerie, watery eyes. Her eyebrow fluttered as if she were about to voice some displeasure, but then she turned and walked slowly away. The door clicked shut behind her, and the prince turned back to Gemma. His hands were trembling, and he clasped them in front of him to hide it.
Goddess, he’s a mess. “I am sorry to hear of your loss, Your … Your Grace,” she said, purposefully stumbling over the proper way to address him. Her bottom lip trembled slightly. “Please forgive me, Your Grace. I am … distraught over Melnora’s illness, and I was unprepared for—”
“It’s all right,” he said, “I’m a bit of a—”
The door that led deeper into the palace burst open. The younger prince, Iven, who Gemma recalled as little more than a boy at the last royal parade, stormed into the room brandishing a bloody sword. He was followed by a pale-faced young woman and two elderly mage women.
“Stop!” Iven bellowed at the top of his lungs. “You, Tollan Daghan, are under arrest for regicide and patricide.” There was a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Prince Tollan stared at his brother, eyes wide and mouth open and closing like a fish on the beach. When he spoke, his voice quavered. “No! Father collapsed, and I was called to his rooms. He died in his bed.”
“Yes, at the point of your blade!” Iven waved the sword.
“I didn’t!” Tears sprung to the elder prince’s eyes.
Gemma had seen enough to know that this family argument was one she had no interest in witnessing. She glanced at the mage women, whose eyes stared blankly out of emotionless faces. A chill ran down her spine. The young woman beside Prince Iven smiled smugly. Mind racing ahead, Gemma made a decision. The royal family could tear itself apart later—Melnora was lying on her deathbed. She turned to go, then turned back, sighing over her own sentimentality. Tollan Daghan didn’t look like he’d fare well in this fight.
“Come on, Your Highness,” she grabbed his arm. “Time to go. This is one ball you were not invited to.” She pulled him backward, slamming the Golden Door shut behind them. Several mage marks flared upon its surface and the walls of the Black Corridor, resetting themselves.
She grinned at him. “We’ve got a few minutes’ head start.” Scooping up her satchel, she pulled him along, past the elegant Black Corridor and into the chilly debris-strewn tunnel. They ran, making turn after turn as she counted in her head and ignored his panting. The darkness was complete, but Gemma knew her way. Tollan tripped repeatedly, but she caught him. His breath was coming in gasps when she finally pulled to a halt.
“So, about that whole assassination thing …” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her words.
“I didn’t do it. I swear,” he said while wheezing.
“That’s what they all say,” she said, then realized that he might not be able to tell that she was joking. “What did happen to the king?”
Tollan coughed and she could hear tears in his voice as he said, “He was in meetings for most of the morning. After luncheon, he said he had a headache and went to his chambers. He … he had some kind of a fit that left him dead on one side of his body.” She could feel the movement of the air around him as he slid to the floor. His words came out in choked sobs. “He … he fell asleep and …”
Gemma’s heart began to pound as she realized how similar his story was to what had happened to Melnora. “Did he fall into a slumber and could not be awakened?” she continued.
“He did,” Tollan croaked. “And then … he died.”
Fear and rage raced through her veins. “How long?” she snapped. “How long did the slumber last?”
Tollan’s voice was a small moth of a thing. “Hours,” he whispered. “Only a few hours.”
“Shit. Prickling, shitting Void,” Gemma snarled. Pieces of a puzzle were fitting themselves together neatly in her mind, forming a picture that terrified her.
“What? Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right! Are you? Your father is dead, and for all I know, Melnora’s gone now, too. The physician said she wouldn’t last the night. And I just helped you escape royal justice. Oh, balls.” She slapped her palms against the tunnel walls.