Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart (8 page)

One man in each pair bore a stout, heavily ornamented walking stick. Upon reaching the front row, he swung this at the guard closest to him, a fast, hard, practiced move that was hardly signaled by his body language until the action was already under way.

Although not expecting any such attack—indeed, distracted by the need to pronounce the ritual blessing—each guard automatically moved to block the walking stick with the elegantly beribboned spear he held in one hand. As the guard did so, the true nature of this seemingly insane attack came clear, when the second man of each pair dove for the space now opened in the ring of guards.

Sir Dirkin and Sir Whyte had positioned the guards so that each had the space of a broad-shouldered man between him and the next. This was partially so that the guards would not block the view of those very important guests seated in the lowest, closest bank of seats, partially so if action was called for they would have room to move. Shoulder-to-shoulder looked very impressive on parade, but it made bringing sword or spear into play rather difficult.

Three of the assassins who moved for the openings their partners had created leapt onto the dais with ease. The fourth was tripped by the butt end of the spear held by the guard at the other end of the gap, a quick-moving fellow whose reward was a knife thrown to bury itself to the hilt in his throat, fountaining blood over his white scarf.

The guards wore breastplates painted with their personal arms over dress uniforms that included highly polished helms, but no one had thought full armor—including highly uncomfortable neck protection—necessary, since the guards' role was to be ceremonial and preventative, not combative.

Having lost one knife, the assassin rolled clear of the spear point another guard thrust at him. Derian saw a look of studied panic on the assassin's face and realized that the man knew he was doomed, that his only wish was to cause sufficient distraction that those who had broken onto the royal dais would have time to perform their task.

Fascinating as that struggle was, Derian's gaze was drawn irresistibly to where the assassins raced toward the bride and groom. Long knives shone bare-bladed in the torchlight. Shad had grasped Sapphire and thrust her behind him—a gallant impulse but one doomed to failure, for the warrior princess was determined to remain at her new husband's side.

Bride and groom had taken their stations for the ceremony near the center of the dais, away from the encircling ring of guards, but the rest of the royal party stood near the edge. With remarkable clarity of purpose, the guards nearest to the monarchs bounded onto the dais, putting themselves between danger and their rulers. Other guards helped the threatened wedding celebrants down from the dais—all the celebrants, that is, but one.

At the first crash of spear and staff, Firekeeper—who Derian had noted seemed edgier than even her nervousness at taking part in the ceremony could account for—had leapt from her place next to Elise, racing to intercept the assassins. Her Fang was in her hand and a furious howl tore from her lips. All illusion that Firekeeper was a gentlewoman vanished with that cry. She was animal fury entrapped by a long gown.

The distant howl that answered hers did nothing to sustain the gentlewomanly illusion.

Firekeeper stumbled slightly against the swathing fabric of her skirt, but she didn't pause to tear the gown short. Instead, with another howl, she flung herself onto the closest of the three assassins. The man was slimly built and the impact staggered him, but he retained his balance. Flailing he steadied himself, simultaneously bringing into play a slightly curved knife with a curious, dull sheen to the blade.

Derian heard the words that ripped out of his own throat as distantly as if they'd been uttered by another person.

"Firekeeper! Poison!"

Whether or not she heard him, the wolf-woman twisted away from the knife blade's first thrust. Unworried about the niceties of civilized combat, she then bit the assassin solidly on the throat. Blunt human teeth might not do the damage of a wolf's fangs, but buried in unprotected flesh they did cause pain.

The assassin yelled. Against the general uproar that now filled the Sphere Chamber, Derian could not differentiate that single voice, but he saw the man's mouth open, revealing stained and broken teeth. The knife in his hand came down, snagging in the swathing scarlet fabric of Firekeeper's surcoat.

Firekeeper had wrapped one arm about her victim's shoulders, forcing him to bear her weight. Her teeth still worrying his throat, she brought her Fang up and into his side. It skidded against some hidden armor, sliding up uncontrolled for a moment before she readjusted.

Releasing the man's throat, Firekeeper spoke to the assassin. Again, Derian had no idea what she said, but he was struck by the curious calmness on her face. Elsewhere on the dais, fear, anger, and horror were evident, even on the faces of the professional soldiers. Firekeeper alone fought as if she were hunting—purpose dominating her actions.

Whatever she said to the assassin cowed him. The knife slipped from fingers suddenly nerveless. He slumped. Firekeeper snarled at him and he dropped to the carpeted floor, arms and legs spread wide.

Without another glance at her victim, Firekeeper turned to defend the prince and princess, but that battle was over.

Sapphire leaned against Shad, the silver white of her surcoat dyed scarlet, the scarlet soaked with blood. The high heirloom crown had fallen to the floor and her hair spilled in a dark curtain that hid the nature of her injuries from immediate inspection.

Shad held his newly wed wife close, his face pale with shock. Still, his control was that of a battlefield commander. He saw that some of the guards who were trying to enforce order on the panicked mob of what had been wedding guests were pushing back a single man determined to get forward. In a bellow trained to carry over storms at sea, Shad shouted:

"Let the man through! That's Sir Jared of Hawk Haven. He's a doctor!"

The guards, who must have been hearing something similar from Doc's own lips, let Sir Jared through immediately. The mob quieted as one at the sound of the crown prince's voice, their panicked shouts fading to a dull murmur so that for the first time Derian could sort individual voices from the general noise.

As Sir Jared half-ran through the parting crowd he nearly slammed into the one figure who moved to intercept him.

"Elise!" he said in surprise.

"I'm here to help," the young woman said stubbornly.

"Good," Doc answered without pause. "Get someone to fetch my kit or any med kit. Mine's in my room."

Sir Jared hadn't stopped moving even as he spoke. Elise turned to obey his orders and found an inconspicuous brown-haired man coming toward her, the requested kit in his hand.

Derian had no idea how Valet, Earl Kestrel's personal attendant, had gotten past the guards, but Valet had the gift of always seeming to be in the right place at the right time. Doubtless the guards had responded to his purposefulness as something welcome in the madhouse around them.

"Valet!" Elise exclaimed in relief.

"Sir Jared's medical bag, my lady," Valet said, handing it to her with a short bow.

Elise spared no time in thanks, but hurried to where Shad had lowered Sapphire to the carpeted dais. Valet crossed to Firekeeper's side.

The wolf-woman stood with her foot solidly planted in the small of her captive's back, clearly waiting lest she be needed. However, the other assassins had been well and wholly dealt with.

Faced with the potential murder of Shad and Sapphire as penalty for anything less than thoroughness, the guards had not attempted to take prisoners. The two other assassins who had reached the dais were dead, their blood spreading to stain the snowy carpet crimson. The one who had failed to cross onto the dais was also dead, bludgeoned by several guards impatient to revenge their fellow's death.

The four club wielders had fared only somewhat better. Two had been knocked out almost immediately. A third had apparently experienced a surge of initiative and had moved toward King Allister. The king's guards had made short work of him.

The fourth club wielder had fled into the crowd, but had made the mistake of choosing the section of seats occupied by the denizens of Bright Bay's minor but extremely warlike Shark Barony. Required by law to always bear arms, the Sharks proved that their elaborately bejeweled belt knives were more than decoration.

In fact, Derian thought, the speed with which the assassins had been dispatched spoke poorly for the entire plan. What a waste of eight lives—for the three assassins who had survived would doubtless be executed. What purpose had the attack served?

True, Sapphire was wounded—perhaps badly—but there was ample medical assistance near. True, there would be those who would speak long and loudly about the ill omens of this wedding. Still, that alone didn't seem enough to merit such an act—not when the same eight assassins could have done their work elsewhere and with greater hope of success.

Frowning thoughtfully, Derian turned and joined those few remaining wedding guests who were now filing from the balcony.

What purpose
had
the attack served?

E
lise took the medical bag from Valet and, snagging her skirts in one hand, raced up those same steps that, what seemed like a hundred years ago, she had mounted with all due decorum, worried only about the many eyes watching her every move.

A small group was clustered around the crown prince and princess, but Elise shouldered her way through without ceremony.

She extended the bag to Sir Jared. He glanced up, the worried frown on his face making his Kestrel family nose look even more beaky than usual.

"Hand me several small separators, would you? Then get out the blue bottle labeled sterilizing wash—the blue one, mind."

Elise did as ordered, finding the requested items easily. Sir Jared had given her some emergency medical training when the recently ended war was in the offing and she'd become familiar then with his personal organizational system.

She became rather worried when he requested the blue bottle of sterilizing wash. From past experience she knew that this was the concentrate he kept and usually diluted before use. Indeed, a glance showed her that there was a pale green bottle containing the dilute solution ready in the bag.

Sir Jared used the separators to hold open the edges of a long nasty slash that began low on Sapphire's right rib cage and extended below her right breast, rising into her left breast and stopping just below the aureole of her left nipple.

"Princess," he said to his patient, "this is going to burn worse than salt and vinegar. I suggest you scream."

Crown Princess Sapphire was, despite the amount of blood she had lost, quite evidently conscious. However, she was so pale that the white oval on her forehead had vanished into the general hue of the surrounding skin. Her reply was prefaced by a small, defiant smile:

"I'll take your suggestion, Doc."

The fingers of one of Sapphire's hands were wrapped around Shad's. He squeezed them gently.

"Ready?" the young groom asked his bride softly.

Doc, however, knew better than to give warning. With a nod of thanks to Elise, he took the blue bottle and splashed the undiluted solution into the open wound. It coursed down from the peak of Sapphire's breast, flowing through the wide slash and across her side.

Sapphire screamed, a shrill, raw sound, and promptly passed out.

"Well, that's for the good," Doc muttered. "Lady Elise, let's remove the fibers from the cut while she's out, and then close. Someone get us some better light."

Elise didn't know who obeyed the knight's command, but the area over them brightened almost immediately. Working quickly lest Sapphire reawaken, they used tweezers to remove the worst of the intrusive material lest it foster scarring and infection.

"Let's close now," Doc said.

Elise nodded and turned to remove clean needle and heavy thread from the kit bag. In the near distance, she could hear a self-assured voice insisting:

"But I am Lord Rory Seal, the Royal Physician, the medical attendant to the royal family. I insist on being let through to the crown princess! I would have been here sooner, but I was seated—quite improperly—toward the back and couldn't get here."

Firekeeper's husky voice answered him.

"Doc is with them. Others are hurt. Go there."

Lord Rory was clearly indignant. "I tell you. I am the physician to the royal family! The title has been in my family for seventy-five years!"

"Go."

Firekeeper must have made some threatening move, for when next heard, Lord Rory's voice was slightly more distant, but complaining still:

"Treating guards and vassals is beneath me! I am physician to the royal family!"

Elise sighed. Firekeeper possessed a fine sense of hierarchy but no patience at all with those who had not proven themselves to her personal satisfaction.

Holding the edges even, Elise held Sapphire's wound closed while Doc stitched through the pale flesh. A certain tension in the muscles under Elise's fingers told her when the crown princess returned to consciousness, but since Sapphire chose to play possum, Elise respected her wishes.

"Unhappily, there still may be a scar unless we are very lucky," Doc said, placing his hands over the wound. The vague look of intense concentration that indicated he was using his healing talent came over his face. "But the breast was not cut deeply and should still function, and the poison on the blade should have been washed out of the flesh. We are fortunate that her wound bled so freely and the knife didn't tag an organ or the circulatory system."

Shad looked relieved. "Thanks, Doc."

He bent to kiss Sapphire's face.

Sir Jared started to smile, aware of the honor inherent in the prince's informality; then he stared at a small ripped patch on the young man's left shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd been hit?" he snapped, holding the young man in place and taking a closer look at the nearly bloodless puncture wound.