Hunter's Season (Elder Races #4.7)(12)

She recognized the palace runner immediately and straightened out of attack position, although she did not sheathe her sword. The runner, a young girl named Drinde and unarmed, paused cautiously several steps below Xanthe and held onto the guard rail, gasping for breath. “Pardon, ma’am—your Highness. Oh, you must come quickly!”

Niniane had come up beside Xanthe, her face blanched white. In a harsh voice that sounded quite unlike her, she snapped, “What has happened?”

“It’s Chancellor Riordan, your grace,” Drinde stammered. “He has been attacked. His servants—his servants say it is very bad.”

Xanthe’s world gave an ugly, sickening lurch. Beside her, Niniane tore off the stiff, richly worked, knee length jacket she wore. The jacket was a work of art and highly restrictive. She threw it to the floor. Underneath it she wore a thin shirt made of fine cotton, leggings and polished ankle boots.

“Let’s go,” Niniane said.

Abruptly Xanthe’s mind clicked over to icy logic that won control just barely over the hot panic galloping through her body. “We don’t know the veracity of this. It might be a trap.” She turned to Drinde. “Are you sure they were the Chancellor’s servants?”

The girl met her gaze. “Yes, ma’am.”

That meant nothing. It could still be a trap. Everything inside of her was screaming to race to Riordan’s house. Instead, she forced herself to say to Niniane, “I have to advise you to wait until Tiago is found.”

“Noted,” the Queen said in a clipped tone. “We’re not waiting. We’ll collect guards on our way out.” The Queen looked at Drinde. “Find Lord Black Eagle. Tell him what has happened, and where we have gone.”

Niniane didn’t wait to hear the girl’s reply. She turned and raced down the hall, and Xanthe raced beside her. They burst through a set of doors, out into a warm, humid night. Xanthe shouted for guards and several came running. She asked Niniane, “A carriage?”

“It’s quicker on foot,” Niniane said. Her eyes were frightened and bleak.

Xanthe rapped out orders. The guards surrounded Niniane, and they all took off running, down the colonnade of ancient sycamores, along the stately mansions on Ambassador’s Row, cutting across a small park and then racing down that street to the end where the Chancellor’s house was ablaze with torchlight. All the while Xanthe remained at a razor’s edge, just this side of violence, her gaze darting around to every dark shadow and to the guards that surrounded her and the Queen, while her mind kept replaying those few, terrible words that Drinde had spoken.

“He has been attacked.”

Riordan was strong, and he would have access to some of the most highly skilled and Powerful physicians in Adriyel.

If the physicians could reach him in time.

“His servants say it is very bad.”

One of their guards raised his fist to pound at the front door of the Chancellor’s house, just as it opened. A distressed male servant looked out at them. His gaze landed on Niniane, and his face crumpled. “Your Majesty, this is so terrible—”

Niniane said through whitened lips, “Is he dead?”

“No, not—no.” The male stood back, holding the door open wide, and Niniane would have raced into the house, except Xanthe grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“You and you,” Xanthe said, pointing to two of the guards. “Come inside with us. The rest of you, check the perimeter of the house. Guard all exit points, doors and windows.” She released Niniane’s arm and ran into the house with her, followed by the two guards.

The interior was a blur of rich wood furniture and golden, glowing lamps. Riordan’s major domo led them up the stairs to where several servants stood, weeping. Xanthe’s stomach was tight with raw nerves. She and Niniane looked through the open doors of an apartment.

Inside was an expansive, elegantly masculine bedroom, the hangings to a large bed pulled back. Two people, a male and a female, were working over a lax, bloody body. Power surged and eddied around the three of them. Xanthe clenched her teeth as nausea welled, her body rebelling at the sight. As quickly as it hit, it passed, leaving a sheen of cold sweat on her hands and face.

“If you’ve come to gawk, get out,” said the male without looking up. “I won’t have his lordship subjected to it.”

“I’m not here to gawk,” Niniane said shortly.

The man’s head jerked around. “Your Majesty—my profound apologies—”

“Forget about it. Focus on your patient. Is he—will he—?” Niniane’s voice stopped abruptly as she clenched a fist in Xanthe’s uniform sleeve.

The physician turned back to his patient. He said tersely, “I don’t know. With respect, please leave us to work now.”

“Yes, of course,” Niniane whispered.

Xanthe put an arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders, hugging Niniane tightly against her side. She did not know if she did so for Niniane or for herself. She could not look away from the man on the bed. His bare, well formed chest was mottled with sword gashes. A blackened bruise disfigured fully half of his still face, and oh gods, all that blood.

Xanthe had seen such terrible wounds before. Most of those who had suffered them had died. Riordan disappeared in a wet haze as her eyes filled. She cleared her throat and said huskily, “Come, let’s find a sitting room.”