The King's Blood

bottle, pulling the cork with her teeth.
    “They knew,” Dawson said. “Not the details, but they knew something was planned. They were ready for us.”
    “Stop talking,” she said. “This will hurt.”
    She poured the wine into the cut on his side, and Dawson arched back, sucking in his breath. He did not scream. She did the same again with the other cut. His breath grew ragged. With his shirt gone and some, at least, of the blood washed away, she could see a dozen angry red welts all down his right side and out along his arm. They didn’t bleed, but the skin around them was hot to the touch and tight as a drum.
    “What happened here?” she asked as she prepared to honey the wounds. “Spiders,” Dawson said. “That mad bastard cultist must have been carrying a sack of them under his robes. And soon as I cut him, they came boiling out.”
    “You cut him,” she said. It was neither a question nor a statement, but something between.
    “If I’d meant to, he’d be dead,” Dawson said as she slathered the honey over the lower of his cuts and pressed her cloth to it. “I was trying for Palliako.”
    With her free hand, Clara pressed palm to mouth, only realizing after that she’d bloodied her own face. Dawson drew her hand away from the cut and pressed down on it himself. It was still bleeding, though not quite as badly.
    “You,” she began, then tried again. “You tried to slaughter the Lord Regent? That’s what this was all about?”
    “Of course it was. Palliako didn’t give me an option. I did and Lord Bannien and Alan Klin and a few others besides. This wasn’t done alone or for glory. We’re fighting to save the throne from those foreign bastards Palliako’s wedded himself to. Only somehow they knew we were coming. The guards were on alert. It should never have been me holding the blade to start with, but they couldn’t reach the high table. Not in time.”
    Clara’s heart darkened. If there was a way to save this, to make it right again, she didn’t know it. She could only hope that they would win, and even that was thin comfort.
    “What happened to him? Does Palliako still live?”
    “I don’t know. When I tried to take him, the bastard priest got in my way, and then the personal guard was at my heels. One of the others may have caught him, but I didn’t. Stop. Enough.”
    He sat up. The cuts still bled, though less freely. Wine stained his skin more deeply than the film of drying blood, and the honey shined on him. He was old. The hair on his chest was more grey than black now, and his forehead was high where the hairline had begun to retreat. His sword was still in his hand. She wondered if she had anything to salve a spider’s bite, and what sort of spiders a priest carried with him into an ambush.
    “What are we going to do?” she asked, proud of herself that the question came out sounding like matter of planning and not a cry of despair.
    “We do what we have to,” Dawson said. “We win. There are forces on our side. Allies. We have to gather them and defend ourselves. We have to find Aster.”
    “Find him? He’s lost?”
    “He is. Once it was done, we were going to throw down our blades right there and surrender to him, but…”
    “But now the palaces are thick with violence, and the prince, who was in the middle of it all, is missing,” Clara said. “God. Dawson, how could you have done this?”
    “It’s my duty. And however badly it’s played out, the risk was worth taking,” he said, his expression closing. He shifted to the edge of the table and let himself down. “I’ll want something to wrap this with. And a fresh shirt.”
    “Stay here,” Clara said. “I’ll bring them.”
    She walked through her own house like it was an unknown country. The papered walls, the glowing oil lamps, the rich tapestries that hung from the walls. All of it had taken on the too-sharp sense of something from dreams. The servants were gone, and with no one to help her, she chose two shirts from Dawson’s wardrobe. One was pale yellow to shred and use as bandages. The other was a dark blue that neared black so that when the wounds wept, the blood wouldn’t show so clearly. Outside the bedroom window, she saw three men she knew—the cook’s boy, the footman with the unfortunate ears, and the farrier’s assistant. They stood clumped together like birds in the cold despite the warm night air. They held blades and hammers, pretending with their postures to know the use