Chapter 141

After leaving the forest, Kennard remained mounted, staring blankly ahead.

Even so, his horse trudged on at a slow, steady pace toward his townhouse, as though it knew exactly where to go.

Countless people looked at him in shock as he passed through the town and rode toward his estate, but nothing entered Kennard’s field of vision.

The streets were steeped in misery, nobles and commoners alike caught in the same pandemonium, their faces equally dark with grief.

Some spotted Kennard astride his horse, drenched in blood, and collapsed to the ground, crying out at him in anguish.

But Kennard paid them no mind. He did not notice that they were calling for him, nor did he care why they wept. His vacant gaze remained fixed straight ahead, stripped of all focus.

By the time he reached the entrance to the estate, the sun had already begun to sink.

The knights guarding the main gate caught sight of him and hurriedly pulled the iron gates wide open.

“Your Grace!”

The moment Kennard rode into the rear courtyard, Serin, who had been pacing nearby, rushed over at once.

The servants who came running out through the back door did the same.

Kennard dismounted and handed the reins to one of the servants.

They exchanged uneasy glances among themselves as they looked at him, but none of them dared speak.

They merely studied his expression, then hurried to clear out of his way.

“What happened?” Serin demanded, his eyes wide as he looked Kennard up and down. “Were you hurt?”

It was no wonder he asked. Kennard was soaked from head to toe in blood, and the stench of it clung to him like a second skin.

Kennard shook his head and shoved Serin aside with a hand on his shoulder.

“Count Remid clearly said that if you did not appear, the White Fox Tribe would seize the imperial palace,” Serin rushed on. “But not long after you left, His Majesty’s corpse was hung from the walls.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Serin repeated in disbelief. “Did you see it on your way back? Surely you were not attacked as well, were you?”

The relentless barrage of questions made Kennard’s skull throb.

“Send the servants to the forest.”

“The place you went to? Why there?”

“Marten…” Kennard began.

His throat suddenly locked as if someone had clamped a hand around it, and no sound came out.

He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed several times before he could finally force his voice through his burning throat.

“Marten is there.”

Serin stared at him blankly, unable to make sense of the words.

“You mean the servants, not soldiers or knights?”

“Yes.”

“And what am I to tell them to do when they get there?”

As he opened the back door for Kennard, Serin asked the question carefully.

“Take Marten back to House Remid.”

“What?”

At that, Serin finally frowned and tilted his head in confusion.

Kennard drew in a deep breath and turned to face him.

“Marten killed himself.”

A dozen expressions flashed across Serin’s face and vanished again.

“He killed himself? You did not deal with him yourself?”

“No.”

“Why would he suddenly…”

“If we leave him there, the beasts will tear him apart,” Kennard cut in. “I will explain the rest later. Send the servants first.”

No matter how far Marten had fallen, Kennard did not want him reduced to carrion.

The image of Marten’s throat hanging open in torn ribbons rose before his eyes, and when Kennard swallowed, it felt less like he was swallowing spit than blood.

Serin lingered as if he still had something more to say, then finally turned and went out through the back door.

Kennard stood there for a long moment, staring at the door through which Serin had disappeared. Then he began walking down the corridor.

Servants hurried about their business, only to stop and flatten themselves to either side when Kennard passed. No one spoke. No one lifted their head. Only the sound of his footsteps echoed quietly through the hall.

When he stepped into the first-floor lobby, the door to the drawing room swung open violently, and Benzef emerged with his aide at his side.

“Your Grace? What in the world…”

Benzef gaped at him as though he had seen a ghost, and for a moment he could not say another word.

Kennard passed them without pause and started up the stairs.

Benzef gestured for his aide to stand down, then hurried after him.

“Your Grace, on the city walls…”

“I know.”

“Ah, then Sir Serin must have already reported it to you. He has been pacing outside the whole time, waiting for your return.”

Kennard did not bother to say that it had not been Serin who informed him, but Marten.

Explaining would be tedious, and the truth would change nothing.

“Who could ever have imagined that the White Fox Tribe’s banner would be planted on the walls of the Baruchella imperial palace?” Benzef said, unable to keep the despair from his voice.

As he spoke, he beckoned to a passing servant with a crook of his finger.

“Prepare hot water for His Grace.”

The servant bowed and hurried off down the opposite corridor.

Kennard watched that servant go from the corner of his eye, and his chest only grew heavier.

No, heavier than before.

After Lassino died in Montefiano, there had been no time to appoint anyone to take charge of the servants in his stead. Kennard had come to the capital with only one thought in mind: taking Elena back.

If Lassino had still been alive, there would have been no need to issue such orders at all. Everything would already have been prepared to perfection, timed to the very hour of Kennard’s return.

Lassino and Marten had both been old companions, men he had trusted.

One had died trying to protect his people. The other had gambled his life to place Kennard on the throne, and in the end had thrown his own away. The sheer absurdity of it filled Kennard with helpless rage.

“How many of the emperor’s soldiers inside the palace remain alive is impossible to say,” Benzef continued as he kept pace beside him, “but surely they have already become hostages.”

“I made even the mercenaries you gathered from foreign nations swear themselves to the emperor.”

Marten’s words from the forest resurfaced in Kennard’s mind.

There was no way to know how many soldiers inside the palace had secretly chosen Marten’s side, or the White Fox Tribe’s. And even if some had survived and resisted them, there was no means now to get word to the ones still inside.

Lost in thought, Kennard came to a stop outside Elena’s bedchamber.

“Is Irish inside?”

Irish should have been guarding the door, yet Kennard could not see him. Instead, he could sense his pheromones from within the room.

“Yes,” Benzef said. “After Your Grace left, Sir Serin ordered him to remain at the lady’s side. I believe he is uneasy about allowing Leto to tend to her alone.”

Kennard reached for the handle, then stopped.

His eyes had fallen on his own hand, streaked and caked with dried blood.

He wanted nothing more than to open the door, to go straight in and see Elena’s condition with his own eyes. But he hesitated.

If she had regained consciousness, she would surely be startled by the sight of him like this.

She had endured more than enough already. He had no desire to add one more shock to her suffering.

“My lady still has not woken,” Benzef said carefully, as if he had read Kennard’s mind, “but her fever has begun to break. She does seem to be improving.”

Kennard could do nothing but nod.

He turned away and headed toward the bath.

Benzef fell into step beside him once more.

“How far has the river dropped?”

“Nearly half compared to before.”

“And the work upstream?”

“It is finished, Your Grace. The moment you give the word, everything can be set in motion.”

At the end of the corridor, he could see servants moving briskly in and out of the bath, carrying basin after basin of hot water.

At the sight of Kennard, their movements grew even more frantic.

Kennard leaned back against the wall and turned his head to look out the window.

The sky had darkened completely, but the grounds of his estate were bright as day beneath the torches lit by the soldiers.

His own knights and Benzef’s retainers had taken up full positions around the manor, armed and ready.

“What are your orders?” Benzef asked.

Kennard sank into silence.

Then he lifted his eyes to the night sky.

There were no stars visible. A heavy halo circled the moon.

“It looks like rain.”

Benzef followed his gaze upward.

“So it does.”

“Send another messenger to the High Priest,” Kennard said. “Tell him that if the rain falls heavily enough to obscure visibility for more than an hour, he is to begin at once.”

“Understood.”

Benzef answered with a sharpened, almost eager expression and hurried away.

Kennard crossed his arms and let the back of his head rest against the wall.

The rain had not even started yet, and still his whole body felt as though it had been soaked through, heavy and dragging, like he was already carrying a storm inside him.