A Kiss for Queens. Морган Райс
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she was strong, though,” Rupert said. “It’s thanks to her that you have a country at all. Thanks to her that traitors to this land have been driven out, their magic suppressed.”
A thought came to him.
“I will be as strong. I will do what is needed.”
He strode over to the coffin, lifting the crown. He thought about what Angelica had said about the Assembly of Nobles, as if Rupert needed their permission. He took it, and he set it on his own brow, ignoring the gasps from those there.
“We will bury my mother as the person she was,” Rupert said, “not as your lies! I command it as your king!”
Angelica stood then, hurrying over to him and taking his hand. “Rupert, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he shot back. Another impulse came to him, and he looked out over the crowd. “You all know Milady d’Angelica,” Rupert said. “Well, I have an announcement for you. Tonight, I will take her as my wife. You are all required to attend. Anyone who does not will be hanged for it.”
There was no gasp this time. Perhaps they could no longer be shocked. Perhaps they’d gone past it all. Rupert walked over to the coffin.
“There, Mother,” he said. “I have your crown. I’m going to marry, and tomorrow, I’m going to save your kingdom. Is that enough for you? Is it?”
A part of Rupert expected some answer, some sign. There was nothing. Nothing but the silence of the watching crowd, and the deep guilt that somehow still wormed its way through him.
CHAPTER SIX
From the balcony of a house in Carrick, the Master of Crows watched the gathering armies, looking out through the eyes of his creatures. He smiled to himself as he did so, a sense of satisfaction creeping over him.
“The pieces are in place,” he said, as his crows showed him the gathering ships, the defenders rushing to build barricades. “Now to watch them fall.”
The bloody sunset matched his mood today, as did the screams coming from the courtyard below his balcony. The day’s executions were proceeding apace: two men caught trying to desert, a would-be thief, a woman who had stabbed her husband. They stood tied to posts while the executioners worked with swords and garroting rope.
The crows descended on them. There were probably those who thought that he enjoyed the violence of such moments. The truth was that it didn’t matter either way to him; only the power that such deaths brought through his pets.
The Master of Crows looked around at the commanders waiting for his instructions, seeing if any flinched or looked away from the scenes below. Most did not, because they’d learned what was expected of them. One younger officer swallowed as he watched though. He would probably need to be watched.
For a moment or two, the Master of Crows slipped his attention back to the creatures wheeling above Ashton. As they gyred and looped, they showed him the spread of the advancing fleet, the branching force that sought to land further up the coast. A rook on a city wall showed him a group of Ishjemme men in merchant clothes opening a hidden chest of weapons by the river. A raven near the city’s graveyard heard men talking of retreating when the attack came, leaving the nobles to fend for themselves.
It seemed like a combination that might leave his pets hungry. He could not have that.
“We have a task to perform,” he said to the waiting men as he brought his attention back to himself. “Follow me.”
He led the way down through the house, taking it for granted that the others would be in his wake. Servants scurried aside, eager not to be in the path of so many powerful men as they descended. The Master of Crows could feel their resentment and their fear, but it didn’t matter. It was only the inevitable consequence of ruling.
In the courtyard, the screams had faded to the silence that only death could bring. Even the quietest of living creatures had the soft sound of breath, the fluttering beating of a heart. Now, only the cawing of the crows cut through the silence as the bodies hung limp against their posts.
“Order must be maintained,” the Master of Crows said, looking over at the officer who had shown a flicker of distaste. “We are a machine of many parts, and each must play its role. Now that they have stepped beyond their bounds, the role of these three is to feed the carrion birds.”
Those were flying down in greater numbers now, settling on the still recent corpses as they started to feast. Already, the Master of Crows could feel the power starting to flow into his flock from the deaths, along with the hundreds more that spread around the New Army’s empire at any one time. There were even a few of his birds feeding in the Dowager’s kingdom.
“It is time to place a thumb upon the scales,” he said, drawing on that power and tracing silver lines of consequence within his mind. Each represented a possibility, a choice. The Master of Crows had no way of knowing which would come to pass; he was not the woman of the fountain, or another of the true seers. He could see enough, though, to know where to exert influence. Where to push for the effects he wanted.
He reached out to the fluttering birds around Ashton. His mind sought the spots where a few well-placed words might do the most, and corvids of all kinds came from the sky to croak them.
A raven landed near the commander of Ashton’s city watch at his command, black eyes staring up at him.
“Northerners on the river,” it croaked as the Master of Crows uttered the words. “Northerners on the river, disguised as merchants.”
He didn’t wait to watch the man’s shock as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Instead, the Master of Crows shifted his attention to a rook in the graveyard, having it land on a headstone near the would-be conspirators who planned to flee.
“Be brave,” his bird croaked. “You are watched.”
To balance it, he sent another bird to a man by one of the main walls, having it caw a premonition of death. He sowed courage and cowardice, gave truths and told lies, weaving them into a spell of known and half-known things.
Not all of the birds were successful. He sent a blackbird winging its way to Prince Rupert’s window, only to find it barred. He sent a crow winging out toward the ships that waited in the harbor, circling lower over Ishjemme’s flagship, only to find his attention caught by the sight of a young man looking up. The Master of Crows knew that young man. He was the one who had thrust a blade into him back in Ishjemme. He stared up at the bird now, and his hand went to his belt, coming up with a pistol almost inhumanly fast…
“Damn it all!” the Master of Crows snarled as he jerked his attention back from the bird just in time.
He left the invaders’ fleet alone. Instead, he focused his attention on the city, finding small things that might give men courage or take it, that might fuel their rage or make them careless. He had a magpie steal a wife’s wedding ring as she washed glasses, then drop it at the feet of the soldier she was married to. No doubt the man would spend the battle wondering why it was not on her finger, and if he should be home. He had a raven lift a lit candle, dropping it in a set of abandoned buildings where the flames would lick.
“Let them choose if they want to save their homes from invaders or from fire,” he said.
There were a hundred other birds about a hundred other errands, each one taking a flicker of power, but each one an investment in the chaos that would flow from it. Some spoke to soldiers, others to men and women he’d sent for this moment, who stood to tell stories of the horrors of Ishjemme to those who would listen, or suggested bloody rebellion against the Dowager’s line, or both.
The Master of Crows took a battle that should have been an easy victory for the invaders and wove it into something more complex, more dangerous, and more deadly.
By the time he came back to himself, he was smiling with what he had achieved. Men thought of the great workings of magic and they thought of symbols or ancient tomes, yet he had just worked something far greater, with far less. He looked around at his officers, still watching the crows pecking