Page 42 of The Rebel and the Rose
One of his advisers rushed forward, whispering something in his ear.
Nodding, he returned his attention to the table. ‘Once you are done dealing with my nephew, I want you to take a trip to the Isle of Alisa.’
Ransom’s brows shot up. Of all the places he was expecting to be sent…
The Isle of Alisa was on a small man-made lake in the middle of the village of Ra’azule in west Valterre. Barely the size of the Hollows, the island was home to the reclusive Order of Alisans, priestesses who devoted their lives to Alisa, Saint of the Sick. There they prayed to her, morning, noon and night, forgoing all manner of nutritious food for bone broth, swearing off all their material possessions, and giving up all possibility of love. Wealthy folk paid good coin for their prayers, believing the Alisans held more sway over their ailing loved ones than even the best physicians in Valterre.
Folly of the rich, his mother used to call it, but the Order had existed for centuries, and in their devout selflessness had become a source of pride for Valterre.
‘To repent?’ he asked now.
The silent quartet tittered at the suggestion.
The king’s face was grave. ‘There’s another mark there in need of urgent attention. A young acolyte, a Sister Marianne, who has been acting out since the storm. According to their Mother Superior, the girl tore down their prayer tower. They found her in the rubble the following morning. For months she’s been unconscious, flitting in and out of dream-sleep. Her sisters have been praying for her night and day. Recently, she has awoken and is acting…destructively. She seems to be developing somewhat…saintlypowers.’
‘You think this Sister Marianne is a new saint?’ asked Ransom carefully.
The king gave an affirming grunt. ‘She has already killedone of her sisters. The other Alisans are petrified of her. Mother Madeline has written to me personally of her concerns. For now, the girl is being kept under lock and key. But she will need to be dealt with before her power escalates, and the matter buried along with her on that island.’
‘You mean to killanothersaint?’ said Seraphine, aghast.
‘I intend to do away with an agitator and a murderer,’ said the king darkly. ‘Thesecreaturesare not like the saints of the first age. The world is very different now. The meaning of that word has changed.’
Seraphine chewed on her lip. Whatever thoughts were dancing behind her eyes, Ransom silently urged her to swallow them.
‘We understand,’ said Versini. ‘You have made everything plain.’
‘Except this,’ the king added. ‘If you fail to complete the task, or you abscond on the journey, the redhead will pay for it in blood.’
Seraphine pitched forward, horror rushing her words together. ‘You have Bibi?’
‘Did you think she evaporated on the journey?’
‘Leave her be,’ she implored. ‘She’s innocent.’
‘Innocence is a matter of perspective, Miss Marchant. Failure is not.’ The king came to his feet. He nodded to the soldiers along the wall. ‘Return them to their cells.’ Wagging a finger between Seraphine and the Shadowsmith he said, ‘Think well on your loyalty in the dark. You will depart in the morning.’
With his advisers trailing after him, the King of Valterre plodded from the grand dining room, then stalled on the threshold to throw Ransom a backwards glance. ‘A word, Dagger. In private.’
Ransom rolled to his feet as the guards moved in to collect their prisoners. There wasn’t time to speak to Seraphine, and by the way she turned her back to him, he doubted she was interested in his advice. Which was:Behave, for fuck’s sake.
A moment later, Ransom stepped into the king’s war chamber. He had been here before, four months ago. That fateful day on the cusp of a cruel winter when he had been summoned to see the king. First, to explain what had befallen Gaspard Dufort and the city he once presided over, and secondly, to introduce himself formally, as the next leader of the Daggers. To kiss a new ring and welcome his role as the king’s brand-new shadow puppet.
The king awaited him in a chair by the grand stone fireplace, the flames there bracketed by a series of violent battle tapestries. ‘Next time you strike one of my soldiers, you’ll spend the night in my dungeon, Dagger.’
Ransom dipped his chin. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’
‘That woman is a liability.’
‘That woman had been beaten to a pulp.’
The king rolled his eyes. ‘Why are Daggers always so dramatic?’
Ransom chewed on his words. For too many years he had sat across from men more powerful than him, trying to swallow back the taste of his own revulsion at their power games, at his own part in them. Without his crown, King Bertrand was not so different from Gaspard Dufort. A greedy, brash man, prone to violence and insecurity. Always grasping for more control, the power in his meaty fists never quite enough.
The king turned his face to the fire, his expression drawn. ‘Rebellion has its teeth in my kingdom. Rumours of Oriel’s final prophecy occupy my advisers’ every thought. They speak now of nothing else. They believe these new saints will spell the end of our age. Of kings and Shade, and man-appointed power. As they crop up like weeds, we must stamp them out, before our control over Fantome and its surrounds diminishes entirely. Do you understand the urgency here?’
Ransom understood that the king was scared. Truly, deeply frightened, not just of rebellion but ofchangeforetold by an ancient diviner of fate. He was speaking of them as though they faced the same threat, but Ransom was not a slave to power, no matter how often he consumed Shade or how it ate away at his soul. He was not desperate at the thought of losing his standing in Fantome; it was that same power that had robbed him of himself.
