Royal Assassin

"The King will hear of this!" Regal took his hand away from his face, looked aghast at the blood on it. He held it up, shaking, to show Verity. "My father will see this blood you have shed!" he quavered, and choked on the blood coursing from his nose. He leaned forward slightly and held his bloody hand away from himself so as not to spoil his clothing with a stain.

"What? You intend to bleed all the way to this afternoon, when our father arises? If you can manage that, come and show me as well!" To me: "Fitz! Have you nothing better to do than stand about gaping? Be off with you. See that my lady's commands are well obeyed!"

Verity turned and strode off down the corridor. I made haste to obey and to take myself out of Regal's range. Behind us, he stamped and cursed like a child in the midst of a tantrum. Neither of us turned back to him, but I at least hoped that no servants had marked what had transpired.

It was a long and peculiar day about the Keep. Verity made a visit to King Shrewd's rooms, and then kept himself to his map room. I know not what Regal did. All folk turned out to do the Queen's bidding, working swiftly, but almost silently, gossiping quietly among themselves as they prepared the one hall for food and the other for bodies. One great change I marked. Those women who had been most faithful to the Queen now found themselves attended, as if they were shadows of Kettricken. And these nobly born women suddenly did not scruple to come themselves to the Lesser Hall, to supervise the preparing of the herb-scented water and the laying out of towels and linens. I myself helped with the fetching of wood for the required pyre.

By late afternoon, the hunt returned. They came quietly, riding in solemn guard around the wagons they escorted. Kettricken rode at their head. She looked tired, and frozen in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. I wanted to go to her, but did not steal the honor as Burrich came to take her horse's head and assist her dismount. Fresh blood spattered her boots and Softstep's shoulders. She had not ordered her soldiers to do that which she would not do herself. With a quiet command, Kettricken dismissed the guard to wash themselves, to comb hair and beards, and to return freshly clothed to the hall. As Burrich led Softstep away Kettricken stood briefly alone. A sadness grayer than anything I had ever felt emanated from her. She was weary. So very weary.

I approached her quietly. "If you have need, my lady queen," I said softly.

She did not turn. "I must do this myself. But be close, in case I need you." She spoke so quietly I am sure none heard her but myself. Then she moved forward, and the waiting Keep folk parted before her. Heads bobbed as she acknowledged them gravely. She walked silently through the kitchens, nodding at the food she saw prepared, and then paced through the Great Hall, once more nodding approval of all she saw there. In the Lesser Hall, she paused, then removed her gaily knit cap and her jacket, to reveal underneath a simple soft shirt of purple linen. The cap and jacket she gave over to a page, who looked stunned by the honor. She stepped to the head of one of the tables and began to fold her sleeves back. All movement in the hall ceased as heads turned to watch her. She looked up to our amazed regard. "Bring in our dead," she said simply.

The pitiful bodies were carried in, a heartbreaking stream of them. I did not count how many. More than I had expected, more than Verity's reports had led us to believe. I followed behind Kettricken, and carried the basin of warm scented water as she moved from body to body, and gently bathed each ravaged face and closed tormented eyes forever. Behind us came others, a snaking procession as each body was undressed gently, completely bathed, hair combed, and wound in clean cloth. At some point I became aware that Verity was there, a young scribe beside him, going from body to body, taking down the names of those few who were recognized, writing briefly of every other.

One name I supplied him myself. Kerry. The last Molly and I had known of this street boy, he had gone off as a puppeteer's apprentice. He'd ended his days as little more than a puppet. His laughing mouth was stilled forever. As boys, we'd run errands together, to earn a penny or two. He'd been beside me the first time I got puking drunk, and laughed until his own stomach betrayed him. He'd wedged the rotten fish in the trestles of the tavern keeper's table, the one who had accused us of stealing. The days we had shared I alone would remember now. I suddenly felt less real. Part of my past, Forged away from me.