Sovereign Blades: The Complete Trilogy

By Amy Sanderson

There will come a time when a last daughter of Eskel blood remains. If that daughter becomes the fallen queen, Eskeleth will burn.

 

Skye has always known her purpose in life. As the third child of Eskeleth's king, she's spent years learning the skills of war and death, to protect her country and the older sister who will one day be queen.

 

Except disaster has befallen the royal family, and from assassin-in-training, Skye has become next in line to the throne. In the name of revenge, she must return to a land plagued by ghosts – and bordered by a rapacious Empire – to enter a world of intrigue and politics, and to fight for her crown against a Council that will do anything to keep her from it.

 

Skye's rule was foretold by prophecy, though, and it promises Eskeleth's end in blood and fire. If she's to save her kingdom, she will need to become both princess and assassin, or everything she's ever loved will be destroyed.

 

Sovereign Blades contains the complete fantasy trilogy of The Steel Princess, The Dagger Queen and Lady of Swords. Over 800 pages of magic and adventure, intrigue and vengeance await you, so grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Sanderson
• Release date: Apr 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393247302

Amy Sanderson

Amy has been writing for as long as she can remember, inspired by a childhood fascination with books. By the time she was fifteen and confronted with school 'careers guidance', she'd decided being an author was the only profession she could possibly enjoy - which, of course, led to a string of other roles, including Archaeology student, bookseller and library assistant. These days, she lives in the North Yorkshire countryside with her partner, where they run a bed & breakfast business and smallholding. When she's not working or writing, Amy enjoys reading, gaming, photography, and trying to pretend she's a grown-up.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Final Test

There were few things Skye Eskel appreciated more than a well-balanced dagger. Its weight in her palm, the leather grip against her skin, the blade whetted and oiled and honed to razor perfection – all of it gave her a thrill like little else. This one had been a gift, and tonight… Tonight she’d get to use it.

She straightened from her crouch on the rooftops, surveying the vista. The jumbled domes and spires of Imaldra turned the skyline into a fractured, uneven thing, and made the star-studded sky behind even more pristine. Skye had little time for stargazing, though. She didn’t need to pinpoint her location by the Sister Stars, because she knew every inch of this city, and tonight she needed to move quickly.

There’ll be others, help and hindrance both. Teacher’s words came back to her as Skye started up the sloping roof at a jog. There’d be other students, yes, out training or running errands, but she also knew there’d be people looking for her. This was her final training mission, after all, and Skye was under no illusions. Plenty of those out here tonight would have been put there to see her fail.

She dropped off the edge of the roof onto a balcony, then danced along the railing to where it abutted a water tower. It was nothing personal that would lead fellow assassins to stand in her way tonight. No, this was for her own benefit, to make sure she was absolutely ready, as honed as her blade. No-one became a blooded member of the Conclave, of age or not, without deserving every bit of it.

There was someone at the top of the tower. Skye knew as soon as she started to climb, fingers easily finding handholds in the rough sandstone. It was a fairly obvious location both to keep a lookout and to assume she’d pass by, but sometimes obvious could be useful. Not everyone looking for her would make an effort to be discreet.

She reached the top of the wall and peered through the stone balustrade, but there was nothing to be seen except a conical roof in Imaldra’s characteristic red tiles. Skye boosted herself up, swinging over the parapet with practised ease, just as the dagger came in from her left, slicing for her throat – or at least it tried to.

The blade hadn’t been blackened, and she saw the moonlight glancing off it as it swept in. Skye ducked, grabbing the attacking knife arm with both hands, even as she swept a foot out behind her. Her attacker broke the hold on his arm easily enough, wrenching free of Skye’s grip, and tried to dance over her outstretched foot. He would have managed it, too, if she hadn’t already dropped both hands to the floor to steady herself, and scythed the other leg after the first.

Her attacker went down with a grunt, and although he bounced back up nearly as quickly, his dagger clattered to the floor and went spinning away into the dark.

Dammit.

Skye had recognised her opponent from the moment of his attack, and sure enough he wasn’t the discreet type, but his voice confirmed it. She scooted into a crouch, waiting to see if he’d go hunting for the lost dagger. Hello, Marcelo.

Marcelo straightened, yanking down his veil, his grin a flash of white in the darkness. Good evening, Your Highness.

Skye grimaced. The title wasn’t just a joke. It had been impossible to hide her origins upon arriving at the Conclave. It wasn’t common for royals to train as assassins, but it wasn’t unheard of either, and the masters had never gone to great pains to disguise it. Skye’s own efforts hadn’t been particularly successful; everyone from the lowliest pot boy to the Grandmaster had known who she was by the end of her first week.

Most of them had long since stopped teasing her about it, but not Marcelo. Even after six years, he still thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Skye got to her feet. Too slow, as usual. That was one of Philippe’s viper blades, wasn’t it? He’ll kill you if you lose it.

Marcelo swore loudly and went scrabbling off into the shadows. He returned triumphant, holding the knife aloft. They both stared at it, moonlight running like water along the scale-patterned steel, before Marcelo gave it a quick polishing swipe across his sleeve and returned it to its sheath.

Any idea how many more are out there? Skye asked. Marcelo’s attack might have been rather half-arsed, but others wouldn’t be.

Marcelo shrugged, following her to the parapet on the tower’s far side. Her destination, a tower of a different stripe, was just visible against the night, not a scrap of light emanating from it. A dozen or so. They’re all along the route they think you’ll take. You could just go round. A pause, as he studied her face. But you won’t. Straight down the middle, as always.

Skye returned the shrug. Life in the Conclave was no less filled with secrets and intrigues than the royal court she’d grown up in, but when it came to her work, she preferred the direct approach. She’d avoid what obstacles she could, but the rest… They’ll never know what hit them.

She glanced at Marcelo, expecting a shared grin, but he was frowning off into the distance. Look, Skye…

He didn’t finish, which wasn’t like Marcelo in the slightest. Skye nudged him. What is it?

Marcelo shook his head. Forget it.

She could use coercion, Skye knew, or even persuasion; she could almost beat Marcelo in a fair fight, and she never fought fair. Instead, she waited, trusting the truth to bubble to the surface of its own accord. And it did.

Something was happening at the Conclave when I left. A runner came in with a message, and… Another shake of his head. I don’t know what was going on, but I swear I heard your name.

A trickle of cold sweat started between Skye’s shoulder-blades, and made its way down her spine. Her name could have been mentioned in connection with nothing more than this test, or a piece of idle gossip, but…

But she couldn’t escape the feeling of dread his words woke in her, and the sudden hammering of her heart that even the fight and the climb up the tower hadn’t triggered.

She put both hands on the parapet, preparing to vault over. She’d already wasted too much time.

Straight down the middle? Marcelo asked.

Skye had to swallow before her dry lips would form words. Straight down the middle.

Good luck.

Skye didn’t have time to answer. She’d already jumped.

***

Three more assassins awaited Skye along her route. Two were trainees, younger than she was, and easy enough to disable. The third, Kaela, popped out of the shadows beside a walled garden, where the air was heavy with summer jasmine and ripe apricots. She was twice Skye’s age, ten times more experienced, and worked primarily for the Grandmaster himself. There wasn’t any way in all the blue heavens that Skye could beat her, and they both knew it.

They circled one another for a few heartbeats, Skye with a dagger drawn, Kaela not yet armed, though that wasn’t likely to last. There were ways for a knife-fighter to risk injury themselves to get close enough to kill an opponent, but Skye barely even considered them. Assassins were killers, yes, but they were also acrobats, and poisoners, and thieves, masters-of-disguise and unseen shades in the night. Hand-to-hand combat didn’t need to be your speciality when you knew how to avoid a fight.

Skye ran. She heard pursuing footsteps, for a time, but then she ducked into a courtyard garden, all ancient apple trees wreathed in trailing moss. She vaulted into the nearest tree, clambering swiftly into the thin, creaking branches near the top, then onto the roof of a house. Kaela, too tall and too heavy to ever creep through those trees without snapping branches, couldn’t follow. When Skye looked back, the older woman was still on the ground, and gave Skye a sharp salute of approval before taking off into the night.

Alone again, Skye paused to regain her breath and study the skyline. Her target rose square and stocky from the jumbled rooftops, an old watchtower from when Imaldra was smaller and the Empire more in need of watching its back.

She set off at a jog, apprehension rising in her chest. You never knew who was going to be at the end of a mission, especially during training. Usually, it was someone from the Conclave, bored witless from waiting. Occasionally, it was someone hired to play the role of target; on one memorable occasion, Skye had tracked down a minstrel who, by the time she got there, was in bed with three women. And tonight…

There were rumours. There were rumours about everything in the closed confines of the Conclave, but the ones about the final training mission were particularly intriguing. It would be a family member, many said, or the Grandmaster himself. Others suggested a stranger, but that for the first time, you were required to put your training into practice. To kill.

She reached the edge of a sharply sloping roof and stopped to survey the watchtower. Its exterior was rife with handholds, but the tower was set apart, meaning to reach its walls she’d have to go down first. Which brought a new possibility.

From this distance, at least, it looked as though the tower door was open.

Skye scrambled to the ground and approached the entrance cautiously. She was, by nature, what the Conclave called an acrobat, well-suited to climbing a tower like this one and making her entrance through some narrow window or other. Maybe that was what she should do, despite the door… But it was just so enticing. Skye had cultivated her thieving well over the years, and there was something difficult to ignore about an unlocked door.

She crept inside, barely brushing against the half-open door. The place was empty and gutted by fire, but there was a stone staircase rising along one wall. Skye took it, climbing past storey after storey of fragile floors that looked ready to collapse. The air smelt of black earth and damp stone, and there was a soft rustling from some of the window embrasures that suggested pigeons. Skye trod carefully past those. Stupid birds they might be, but they could give away her presence like nothing else.

The final ceiling looked sound, maybe even newly constructed. The staircase rose to a trapdoor, closed but not – when Skye pushed gently against it – locked.

She braced herself for the squeal of hinges, but the trapdoor rose without a sound. Skye followed it, head, then shoulders, then the rest of her. Moonlight trickled in through a single slit window, all the others boarded. There was a table in the centre with two chairs, a chest against the far wall, and a narrow bed beneath the window. A narrow, occupied bed.

Skye closed the trapdoor silently behind her, or at least she thought she did. Her heart was thumping so hard that she could hear nothing else, and she had to wipe her sweating palms three times against her trousers before she could properly grip her dagger. It didn’t matter who was in that bed. It didn’t matter whether they were a stranger or not. To complete this final test, to finally join the Conclave proper, she knew what she had to do.

Only when she was directly above the sleeper, her dagger held ready, did Skye look down. The figure in the bed was facing the wall, but she recognised that face better than her own. Teacher: the man who’d been there since her very first day in the Conclave, who’d trained her in everything from how to brew elixirs, to how to hold a sword. Six years. Six years, she’d followed him like a shadow – and when she was up to something she shouldn’t be, the other way around.

It would be too easy to hesitate. Falter now, and everything she’d worked for would be lost. She’d be cast out of the Conclave, sent back home in disgrace, never able to become what she so firmly believed was her destiny. No, this was it. This was how one life ended – and another began.

Without another thought, Skye brought the dagger down.

***

Teacher knocked her arm aside before the blade so much as nicked him. She should have known he wouldn’t be sleeping. Skye reared back, instinct saving her from being caught, but the dagger was lost harmlessly in the bedclothes. No matter. She had another.

Skye. Teacher’s voice was gravelly with age and pipe smoke. It almost brought her up short out of sheer habit, but instead she sprang away, reaching for another weapon. This would be harder with her target awake, but she’d still see it done.

She attacked without warning, as Teacher was climbing off the bed. He deflected her strike easily, knocking the blade aside; his other hand, coming out of nowhere, slammed into her chest. Skye staggered backwards, but she was still armed, ready to attack again–

"Skye. This time, Teacher’s voice had the ring of command, and Skye halted, out of reach of any disarming moves. Gods, girl, stop for a minute."

Skye backed away, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking. This is what I have to do.

No, that’s what the test is intended to make you believe. Teacher stood. He was dressed in his usual black robes, though his veil hung loose beside his scarred face. We need to see what you’ll do.

What did you expect? Skye allowed her posture to relax, just a little. Perhaps a conversation would put Teacher off guard long enough for her to attack. That I’d just walk away?

Some do. Teacher shrugged. He knew what she was planning, of course, and moved to put the sturdy table between them. Most, actually. It’s usually a family member waiting. We’ve only had three deaths in the last decade.

"Don’t you want them to kill? Isn’t that the point?"

Only if that’s what the student feels necessary. Mostly, a Conclave watcher intervenes first, but it’s a good lesson. You never know what you’re going to face, and you never know where a contract is going to take you. Some assassins have boundaries – women, children – and we have to know what they are.

Suddenly too curious to hold her focus, Skye let her blade drop a little. And me? What do you think my boundaries are?

Teacher gave a soft chuckle. Judging by your performance tonight, you don’t have any, unless I mean less to you than I thought. I always knew you were a ruthless one, though; royals often are. It would have been interesting to see what you’d have done if there had been family waiting.

Skye stiffened. Her family, especially her two older siblings, were maddening, infuriating, but also the people she loved most in all the world. Even Teacher couldn’t compete with that. I suppose they were too busy to come, she said, and wasn’t quite able to keep the relief from her voice.

Teacher didn’t reply. In fact, he’d gone very still, as if waiting for something – or preparing. In the end, all he said was, Sit down, Skye.

She sat. It was clear this night wasn’t going to end as she’d assumed, but Teacher seemed satisfied. Had she done enough, she wondered, to finally pass the Conclave’s training?

Teacher went first to the chest by the wall, removing a bottle and two glasses, one of which he pushed towards Skye as he sat down. You know there are three more years of apprenticeship before you’re properly an assassin.

Skye nodded, feeling her heart speed to a gallop. They’d only be discussing the apprenticeship if…

Teacher opened the bottle with a gentle popping sound, and poured a dark liquid into both glasses. He waited until she’d reached for hers before continuing, I’m sorry you won’t be able to stay for them.

Skye almost choked on her drink. It was Eskelene wine, or the potent, syrupy concoction that passed for it in her northern homeland. She’d been too young to drink much of the stuff before she left home, and her palate had changed to accommodate the rich earthiness of Imperial vintages, but it set off a pang of nostalgia, even homesickness, all the same.

Which, if she understood Teacher correctly, she’d soon be able to assuage. You’re sending me home. I’ve failed.

As a matter of fact, you haven’t. You’ve excelled in your physical training, and the arts of stealth and disguise. Your poison-making is a little haphazard, and your sword-work positively sloppy, but there’s enough skill in you to make a fine assassin.

Frustration, even anger, bubbled in Skye’s chest. Why, then? Why aren’t you taking me on?

Teacher’s dark gaze was direct, and even scarier than usual. Because you’re needed at home.

Needed? She’d always known she’d go back someday. As the king’s third child, it was her duty to learn the ways of war – or outright death, in her case, as she’d proved so useless at history and strategy – like so many third children before her. After this sojourn, she’d go back to the Eskelene court and spend her life commanding the army, and protecting the lives of her older siblings. She’d always expected to leave a full-fledged assassin, though. Are we… are we going to war?

There was no ‘we’ about it. The Conclave tried to stay neutral in such matters, but they were based in the Empire, and if it came to it, Skye knew she and Teacher could well be on opposing sides. The fragile peace that allowed her to train in Imaldra couldn’t last forever.

Even that stark thought was blown away when Teacher did something he’d never done before – reached across the table, and placed his hand over one of hers. You’re not needed to lead troops, Skye. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but no-one can make this any easier. Your family are dead, and you… You’re going to be queen.

CHAPTER TWO

The Quiet Dead

Queen. Two weeks at sea, and Skye never once let the word slip from her mind. Her thoughts wanted to rebel every time, but she made herself fix on it, until there could be no doubt. Still, she felt sick with it, and not just that. She was a miserable sailor, spending most of the voyage thrashing in her bunk, occasionally spewing up the meagre contents of her stomach. By the time they rounded the Cape of Bone, as it was locally known, she felt hollowed out and wan, reduced to a stretched frame of grief and nervous exhaustion.

It was a relief when the seas finally calmed. The waters around the cape were rough even at this time of year, but on the other side, in Eskelene waters, they smoothed. Skye crept up on deck when she heard the watch bell sound, and found herself confronted with a familiar sight.

Home. Even round the span of the Cape, the landscape changed dramatically, from the sere, dusty hillsides of the western Empire to the rucked emerald peaks and valleys of Eskeleth. Even now, there were drifts of fog along the coastline, the forested hills rising like the humped backs of great beasts above the murk. Even over the tang of saltwater, the air smelt of pine.

Skye sucked a deep breath, then fell to coughing and gasping, her stomach rebelling even now. The sailors casually ignored her, circling around her blanket-swaddled form as though she were the centre of a whirlpool. It would be another half day to port, Skye knew; if she was going to make herself at all presentable, now was the time.

It was early evening by the time they coasted into the harbour at Tulmeroc. Skye had managed to brush her greasy hair and rub some of the worst scuffs off her boots, but there was nothing she could do about the fact she didn’t have a stitch of finery to her name. Arriving to claim her crown in assassin’s blacks had felt too much like an omen, so she’d opted for old travelling clothes, stained leathers and a faded, bottle green cloak. She looked like a caravan guard, maybe a mercenary, but it was the best she could do.

The roll of the ship as they moored set Skye’s stomach complaining once again, and she was glad there was no ceremony as the gangplank was lowered. Instead, she staggered down to the quay alone and unannounced. She might have joked about what an ignominious entrance this was, if she wasn’t wracked with dry heaves, and if she’d had any jokes left in her.

Figures emerged from the dockside, setting the low mist churning. Two were guards holding torches against the rapidly darkening evening, and the third glittered beneath their light. Skye squinted at him, trying to put a name to the face.

Your Highness. The voice came out of the fog, low and controlled; Skye caught a glimpse of fine robes, dark skin and a dark pointed beard – and a chain of office, flashing against his chest when he moved. You have my sincere condolences. Your father was a good man and a great king, and your sister and brother were taken from us too soon. Now, you must be tired after your journey. Please, this way – we have a carriage waiting.

Skye didn’t move. Her instincts prickled in warning, even strung-out and exhausted as they were. Do I know you?

Ah, forgive me, Your Highness. The man bowed, courtly, but only just low enough to be deferential. My name is Minister Varren, Your Highness. I had the honour of serving on your father’s Council, before his sad demise.

Skye stiffened. There had been few details of her family’s deaths before she left Imaldra, and she’d spent the whole voyage concocting new and more elaborate ways they might have died. It wasn’t just speculation that set her teeth on edge, though – she didn’t know this Varren, who was too young to have been a minister before she left Eskeleth six years ago, but she instantly disliked him now.

But that was petty, and childish. This was just a man doing his job, and a really sodding unpleasant job, given the circumstances. There was no need to form baseless opinions of people in the dark, and certainly not to be a brat. Thank you, minister. The carriage, please.

They swept along the quay in procession, Varren and the two guards straight-backed and sure of themselves, Skye feeling hunched and insecure. This was her home, she kept telling herself, but the things that made it so – the people who made it so – were gone. Two weeks had been long enough to convince herself this wasn’t all some joke by one of her siblings, who were far too staid and sensible to pull such a thing; that it wasn’t even a terrible mistake. If she was being summoned back to Eskeleth like this, her family really was dead.

The carriage waited next to a shipmaster’s office, lanterns burning at its four corners. Varren himself held the door for her and Skye stepped inside, into a box that smelt of dry wood and musty velvets. Her family all rode and their carriages didn’t get much use; it wasn’t difficult to see why.

Varren climbed in after her, gracefully settling himself into the far corner. Skye found herself studying the man as they rattled into motion, unable to abandon her assassin’s watchful eye. He was even younger than she’d thought on the quayside, barely into his twenties, with a narrow, handsome face. He was also Dushkadi, one of the southern travellers who’d fled a war with the Empire to settle on Eskeleth’s northern coast centuries ago, claiming lands no-one else had thought habitable and making a striking success of it. The Dushkadi were Eskelene through and through, these days, with dukedoms and seats on the Council. Varren himself must come from noble stock; gems glittered on his fingers when he moved, and in his ears.

Are those Imaldran diamonds? Skye asked, pointing to her own ear for emphasis.

Varren, far from being ashamed of his gaudiness, positively beamed at her. Thank you for noticing, Your Highness. They are. A gift from my sister. She’s married to an Imaldran merchant.

Skye just nodded. There was a time in Eskelene history when anything remotely connected to the Empire was shunned, when they’d spent the summers defending the mountain passes from Imperial incursions, and the winters sharpening their swords for the next campaign. That had been half a century before she was even born, though, and whilst they might now watch the Empire warily from behind their wall of mountains and wards, technically they were at peace.

If Varren marked her sombre mood, he seemed determined to lift it. We’ll go straight to the castle, Your Highness. The whole place has been in an uproar over your arrival.

Though she didn’t turn her face from the moonlit vista of dark trees and rolling hills, Skye raised an eyebrow. In an uproar because of her – or because the rest of the royal family was dead?

I want to see them. She’d intended the words to sound cool, controlled, but her voice cracked. She coughed, and for the first time, Varren averted his gaze diplomatically. I want to see my family.

The minister’s eyes flew wide in surprise; Skye knew more bad news was coming, as he made a show of clearing his throat and smoothing his velvet robes. Ah, Your Highness, that… that might not be possible. We knew you were coming, of course, but it’s been a full turn of the moon since it happened…

Nearly a month. Of course, the message to the Conclave would have taken nearly as long to reach her as it had for her to return home. You’re saying they’ve been buried. This time, her voice was flat, dead.

Varren cleared his throat again. It seemed the most prudent course, Your Highness. The whole Council agreed.

Skye turned back to the window as the carriage lurched round a bend in the road. In the distance, light glowed above the hilltops, the first sign of a city she knew better than any other. It should have filled her with relief, but instead she felt nothing but a vague, formless dread. Then I want to see where they died, she said finally.

This time, Varren looked even more confounded. Where they… Your Highness…

You will take me there, Skye ordered. Now.

Varren bowed over his knees, though not before Skye caught a flash of dismay in his eyes. As you command, Your Highness. We’ll go there right away.

***

Skye had spent the first twelve years of her life in the city of Celiande. She knew every cobbled street, every twisting lane, and every hiding place. She knew, too, where they were going, as soon as the carriage turned east from the Market District, instead of north towards the castle. When they started to climb up the little switchback lane towards the Halls of the Dead, Skye closed her eyes.

I’m sorry, Your Highness. Varren’s words were a murmur across the carriage.

Skye’s voice, by contrast, was a croak. What were they doing here? Father, Lunen, Erle…

The king, his eldest daughter and his only son, in other words. What had they been doing amongst Celiande’s tombs, where the city’s dead had been interred for time immemorial?

They appear to have been visiting your mother’s tomb, Varren said, sounding almost apologetic. That’s where…

Skye was glad he didn’t finish. She barely remembered her mother, died in childbirth with a younger sister who’d also perished, but grief seemed a fresh hammer-blow to her chest all the same. That her father and two siblings could have died beside the queen’s grave… It was macabre, ghoulish, too horrific to contemplate – but contemplate it she must.

The carriage rattled to a halt. Varren himself rushed to help Skye out, before the footmen could reach her. She took his warm hand, the fingers so smooth, so unaccustomed to labour or the sword, and allowed herself to be handed out of the carriage. Her mother’s tomb loomed before them, a darker silhouette against the night; torches burning on either side of the hammered iron door provided the only flickering light.

Skye stepped forward, placing her fingers against the cool metal. Every grave in Celiande, even of the meanest pauper, was bound in iron this way. Celiande itself was an old city, and Eskeleth as a nation even older. The Empire might scoff at much of it – all save those spells they coveted for themselves – but there was magic here, ancient enchantments soaked into the very bones of the earth. In this land, it took a lot to make the dead stay quiet.

She pushed the door open, silent on its hinges. More torches flamed inside, guttering from the draught, spilling pools of ruddy light across the room. Her mother’s grave was in the centre, a sarcophagus of white marble, carved all over with flowers and vines. Her father’s tomb, prepared years ago, was an even grander affair.

Varren seemed to read her mind. The rest of the family were interred in the Eskel family vault, Your Highness. It seemed more… appropriate.

Yes, it would have done. The king might once have wished to be buried beside his wife, his own tomb be damned, but that was before he’d known he was going to die here.

Skye crossed the room, to stand at the foot of the sarcophagus. What happened?

It was quite clear, from the silence behind her, that Minister Varren hadn’t expected to be the one to tell her this. Probably, the whole Council had agreed to keep her away from this place, until her grief had a chance to cool – or until she’d got a grip on the more important business of ruling the country. Right now, though, Skye wanted nothing more than the truth; cloaking it in the shadows of this place seemed appropriate.

What happened? she repeated, circling the tomb – and coming to an abrupt halt halfway round. Someone had tried to scrub the blood away, but the stone floor was pale and porous, and the dark stains seemed like living things by torchlight.

All three were killed with a sword. Varren’s words came tumbling out, as though he’d decided to get this over with as quickly as possible. We believe His Majesty stabbed both Princess Lunen and Prince Erle, before turning the blade on himself.

Skye felt her gorge rise. Her head was spinning, and the air of the tomb felt stuffy and enclosed, still tainted by the rust smell of old blood. She wanted to protest, because not a single word he spoke could be true. Her father would never even consider suicide – never – and to suggest he’d want to harm his children was almost laughable. Not a bit of it made sense.

Except, as she leaned against the sarcophagus, her legs no longer supporting her weight, Skye saw the sword.

She felt a jolt of recognition, immediately clouded by confusion. What… what was that doing here?

The last Sovereign Blade, Varren said, unnecessarily. It was… It was still embedded in the king’s stomach, Your Highness. That’s how we knew it was suicide.

Skye’s knees finally gave way. Varren made a soft sound of distress, but didn’t seem to dare touch her – or maybe he didn’t dare enter the tomb. She knew that sword, knew it had hung above the throne for as long as anyone could remember. There had been a dozen Sovereign Blades, once, but the rest had been lost centuries ago, only this last one surviving in the possession of the Eskel family. Because whatever else you knew about the Blades, one fact was common knowledge: they could only be wielded by Eskelene royalty.

The sword was sitting in an alcove. Someone of prodigious strength must have lifted it there, because whilst anyone not of royal blood trying to use the weapon brought excruciating pain upon themselves, wrapping it in cloth for transport made it almost unbearably heavy.

The castle’s smith moved it, Varren explained, but of course we could take it no further.

Still in a daze, Skye felt strength return to her legs. She rose, crossing the tomb – carefully circling the bloody stain – to close a hand around the sword’s hilt. She’d never once seen it removed from its decorative plaque, and she almost expected it to be a lead weight in her hand, but she lifted it easily. The blade felt balanced, the silver pommel bright as the day it was forged, the hilt a perfect fit to her hand. She might even have given it a testing swing, if she hadn’t known what it was last used for.

When she looked up, Varren was watching her with wide eyes, as if he hadn’t expected her to be able to lift it. Skye placed the sword on her mother’s sarcophagus and braced her hands beside it. Find me something to cover it. I can’t–

Can’t look at it, she’d intended to say, but even for a princess in grief, that was too maudlin. It was, after all, just a sword. The hand that had wielded it was to blame.

Varren removed his own cloak, draping it over the sword in folds of midnight velvet. Skye bundled it up quickly, desperate to be out of there. She wasn’t sure what she’d hoped to find in coming here, but everything except renewed pain had eluded her. She didn’t understand what her family had been doing here, sixteen years after the queen’s death and on no particular anniversary. More importantly, what her father had supposedly done made no sense at all. Skye couldn’t even picture him holding the sword, let alone–

She felt her stomach churn again and made hurriedly for the door. Only when she was outside, bathed in cool starlight again, did a question occur to her. What happened to the scabbard?

The scabbard, Your Highness? Varren sounded perplexed, and understandably so. It was such a little thing, and she could well imagine no-one had paid it the slightest heed. Still, the scabbard of a Sovereign Blade carried the same spells as its sword – it couldn’t be handled by anyone but royalty.

Was it ever found? Skye pressed.

No, Your Highness.

She paused a moment, doubts warring with what seemed hard facts. If Teacher were here, he’d tell her to look beyond emotion, to trust her instincts, and failing that, solid reason. Unfortunately, instinct and reason were telling her two different stories, and Skye couldn’t fathom a way through the mess.

She shook her head. This was foolish. She needed sleep and a chance to compose herself, to see all this in the cold light of day. Take me to the castle, she said, climbing into the carriage before anyone could move to help her. Suspicions and instincts would have to wait for morning to be made sense of, if such a thing could be accomplished. Right now, all Skye wanted to do was go home.

***

Sleep, it turned out, was rather hard to come by. As soon as the carriage reached the castle, Skye was whisked away by waiting servants, to be bathed and fed and clothed, not in her childhood bedroom but in a far more sumptuous guest room in a newer part of the castle. Varren vanished, presumably to speak to the rest of her counsellors, for which Skye was glad. For all his earlier kindness, she couldn’t bring herself to trust him; right now, she’d rather be alone.

It appeared she wasn’t going to get much solitude, either. Turned drowsy by her bath, it took Skye a full minute to realise what the servants had dressed her in. Not nightclothes, not an evening robe, but a smart tunic, trimmed in silver thread, with a cloak, boots and even gloves to go with it.

Am I going somewhere? she asked, too bemused to be formal.

The servants practically cowered. It didn’t matter that she’d grown up here – she was a stranger now, and none of these women knew her as anything other than the girl who’d gone off to become an assassin, and come home a queen.

Your escort is waiting, milady, one of them whispered, blinking at Skye as if stunned by her own audacity.

Escort? Of course. The king had never been without guardians, and now she wouldn’t be, either. Skye sighed, wondering just how many hours past midnight it was. Show them in.

The servants did so, then scurried off. There was the creak of leather and the soft scuff of boots against the floor, before two figures stepped into the room. Skye’s heart squeezed painfully, recognising the same pair who’d guarded her father – and being glad, finally, of encountering someone she knew – only to realise she was wrong. These two were also northerners, with the same pale skin, pale hair and paler eyes, the same stiff postures, but both of them were strangers.

The older of the two, a young man perhaps three years older than Skye herself, bowed. Josselyn Kadvalaer, Your Highness. It’s an honour to serve.

There was a frigid silence; the second guardian, a girl, looked like she was biting her tongue. She was close to Skye in age, but she had a glare to freeze oceans, and indeed neither of them looked happy to be there.

Finally, the girl bowed. Auda Kadvalaer. Your Highness.

Skye wanted nothing more than to send them packing – she could well protect herself – but she knew the symbolism of this. The northern island of Shenland was bound to Eskeleth through ties of blood and honour, and they demonstrated it by providing the Eskelene monarch’s guardians. These two, though, looked like they’d bitten into lemons.

You already know who I am, Skye said. Weariness was making her stupid, and she wanted the pair of them to stop staring at her so… expectantly. Did they need orders to stand around watching her? Weren’t they supposed to work that out for themselves?

Josselyn cleared his throat. Auda and I are siblings, Your Highness. One of us will be beside you at all times from now on.

Siblings. The word made Skye’s gut clench and she had to sit on the edge of the grand bed before her knees gave way for a second time. The idea of being accompanied, always, was exhausting, even a little bit demeaning, but right now she didn’t have the strength to argue. She stared at the siblings, blinking slowly, as her mind made connections on its own. Don’t I know you? she asked, the question sounding far more demanding than she’d intended. You look familiar.

Both guardians stiffened. The brother looked uncomfortable, the sister positively murderous.

Our parents guarded your father, the king, Josselyn said finally. They’d been with him since his coronation.

Where are they now? Before they could answer, a more pertinent question occurred to Skye. Wait, where were they when he was…

They should have been with the king at his death – all three of them knew that. No matter the circumstances, no matter whether the Sovereign Blade really had been in her father’s own hand, his guardians should have stopped it, or died trying.

They’d been ordered to remain in the castle. Josselyn was staring over her head, unwilling to look her in the eye. Under most circumstances, they would have been at his side, but…

Skye shook her head, an uneasy feeling in her gut. Nothing she’d learnt about her family’s deaths made sense, this least of all – unless you really believed the king had wielded the sword himself, and Skye couldn’t accept that. Yet.

They’ve been exiled. Auda’s voice was a crack of lightning in the stillness, with every bit as much lacerating force. For failing the king, they’ve been exiled.

And you’ve taken their place?

To restore their honour, Your Highness, Josselyn said, though he didn’t sound any happier about it than his sister. And the honour of our family.

Irritation prickled in Skye’s chest. The elder Kadvalaers might have been exiled for their failure in their duties, but her family had suffered a far worse fate. Then you’ve got a lot of work to do, she snapped.

That, of course, did nothing to ease the tension. A headache was pounding at Skye’s temples, and her limbs felt heavy with the need to sleep. Even holding her eyes open required a force of will.

It wasn’t their fault. Auda sounded as though she was trying not to shout, every breath sucked in hard. They were ordered to stay behind. They’ve been unfairly punished for a decision they didn’t get to make–

"And now my family is dead. Skye was on her feet, though she couldn’t remember standing. She’d roared the words without meaning to, and though they were both a head taller than her, the Kadvalaers were staring in shock. Their surprise only made Skye angrier. Get out, both of you."

Josselyn started to protest, perhaps seeing echoes of what had happened to his parents. Your Highness–

"Out!" The word ripped from Skye’s lungs. She couldn’t ever remember being angrier, not once in her life, and if these two northerners didn’t move quickly, one of them was going to get a dagger in the gut.

To their credit, they went, swiftly and without complaint. Only as the door closed behind them did Skye realise tears were streaming down her face, her chest wracked with sobs. She tried to take a deep breath, but that only made them worse. In the end, all she could do was collapse across the bed, boots and all, and try to block the world out.

CHAPTER THREE

A Blank State

Morning crept into Skye’s room in honeyed sunshine and a whisper of servants’ feet. One of them must have removed her boots in the night, and pulled a blanket over her, but they didn’t seem to dare speak now. She ignored them, staring up at the canopy above the bed, imagining rivers running through the folds of fabric, and cities built upside-down onto the drooping hillocks. Tracing maps in her head – of Imaldra, of Celiande, of a dozen other cities the Conclave had made her learn – was better than thinking of her family, her position, of anything at all.

In the end, hunger drove her upright. A platter had been placed beside the bed, fresh white bread and butter, apricot jam on one side, strawberry on the other. Skye didn’t have much of a sweet tooth these days, and had grown used to training on a growling stomach every morning before breakfasting on hard cheese and cured meat. She could imagine, though, the kitchen maids carefully arranging the platter, cutting the bread to exacting thickness, even hunting through the dewy gardens for the perfect flowers to make the posy beside the plate. Long before her years in the Conclave, her father had taught his children not to be ungrateful, so without hesitation, she ate.

I know you’re there, she said, around the first mouthful. Are you going to hide all morning like a mouse? I didn’t know you Shenlanders were so timid.

If he was offended, her guardian didn’t show it. Josselyn stepped from the shadows of the antechamber, his gait smooth, his face impassive. Skye studied his weaponry – a short sword suitable for fighting in close confines, a slender dagger, three throwing knives just visible behind his back – rather than look him in the eye. She had the feeling she’d see nothing but contempt, even if he didn’t have his sister’s outright animosity; she didn’t think apologising for last night’s outburst would change that, either. If the Kadvalaers wanted to hate her for their parents’ exile, they were free to do so, and Skye suspected they’d go on hating her whether she smoothed things over or not.

Not that she could read any of that in Josselyn’s face. The Council is expecting you, Your Highness, he said, and that was all.

Skye kept chewing. Nothing from her guardian about hurrying things along, about making sure she wasn’t late, about not keeping her counsellors waiting. No, that wasn’t his place; indeed, she wasn’t sure whose place it was, now. Maybe, if she was to be queen, no-one’s at all.

She pushed the platter aside, rolling from the bed in last night’s rumpled clothes. You know, the Emperor has a dozen sworn warriors – his blood guard – all of them bound to protect him until they die. If they break their oaths, he makes them cut off their own left hand.

For the first time, Josselyn’s grey eyes flicked to her. We have no need of blood oaths, Your Highness.

Skye grunted. She hadn’t really intended to question his loyalty. Somehow, all she’d wanted was to see him rattled, to shake that placid exterior. Apparently, she’d have to try harder.

The maids rushed in as soon as she’d finished eating, and Josselyn returned to the antechamber whilst they picked out her clothes and fussed over her hair. No-one insisted on a gown, at least, just tight breeches and shirt, with an embroidered jacket over the top. They wouldn’t let her tie her hair into its usual knot, though; that went into an intricate braid that would probably take her an hour to untangle later. She was surprised to find how long her hair had grown, and how tanned her face was. Somehow, the version she pictured of herself was always twelve, skinny and graceless, sallow after a lifetime under grey Eskelene skies. The Conclave had never had a surfeit of mirrors.

And then she was hustled out into the corridor. She knew the way to the Council Chamber, of course, even if her preferred route involved an unorthodox short-cut through a door behind a tapestry, then across some ancient queen’s reception room, now used for storing dusty halberds. Josselyn was a silent shadow at her back, which Skye supposed she should find reassuring, but mostly just got on her nerves.

The Council met in the old part of the castle, the Granite Keep, which was much the same as ever; it was easy for Skye to picture all her childhood escapades and tribulations amongst these imposing walls. That also meant she could picture her family, ghostly impressions of them stamped across every room, every piece of furniture, arguments and laughter ringing from the walls. She swallowed hard, against a throat that felt banded in iron, as she turned a corner into the Long Gallery, and spied the family portrait hanging at the end.

She remembered that day, her and Erle, Lunen and father, posed around a velvet couch in the solar, whilst a fussy Imaldran painter and his assistants arranged curtains and clothing, shoved meaningless props into their hands. Father ended up with a book covered in glorious red leather that turned out to contain terrible poetry; he spent the afternoon reading it to them in tones of great seriousness that couldn’t quite disguise his own laughter. Then Erle started to sing, which made the wolfhounds at their feet howl; the next thing Skye knew, her crown had slipped over her eyes, and Lunen laughed so hard she fell right off the couch.

Skye felt tears prick her eyes. It had been easy, through the long days at sea, to cast her mind to other things: letters to the friends she hadn’t had time to say farewell to, exercising when she felt able, and then hours of her own seasick misery. Now, though, there was nothing to focus on but the present – being home again, with her family gone, and the castle echoing to frightened whispers. Being the only one left to pick up the pieces. Being alone.

Behind her, someone coughed. Maybe it was involuntary, or maybe a subtle reminder that she was standing here in the gallery, Josselyn and a steadily growing stream of delayed servants building up behind her, whilst the Council waited on her caprices. She took a deep breath, moved a hand to the reassuring weight of the dagger at her hip, and walked on.

The Council Chamber was quieter than she’d expected, the conversation muted, the counsellors bunched into little knots or lounging beside the unlit fire. There was a tense, nervous atmosphere, and the great oak table was empty; no-one dared sit for fear of being presumptuous. This had been her father’s Council, after all, and there was no certainty it would be hers.

Indeed, Skye knew few of these faces. Varren, standing close to the fire, was the youngest of them, but even the older figures were strangers. She’d been just twelve when she’d left Eskeleth, and far enough down the line of succession that she’d never needed to learn the true business of state. Lunen was the heir, Erle had always joked, and he the spare – Skye was just the muscle.

Well, not any more. She needed to look decisive, and if anyone noticed the way her hands shook as she crossed the room to the head of the table, they were polite enough not to mention it. There was a fraught pause as she stood beside her father’s chair – and then an audible sigh of relief as she took the seat to the right. Suddenly, Josselyn’s steady presence began to seem reassuring, after all.

Your Highness, it’s an honour to have you here with us again, even at this tragic time. Skye started at the voice, rumbling from across the table. She knew that craggy face, even if it wore a few extra years. Minister Borlas – ‘the Boar’ to his friends – had been close to her father, and she remembered him as a steadfast presence throughout her childhood. She didn’t know his loyalties now, but surely he’d want to support her, guide her, in memory of her father. At the very least, it was a relief to know someone would know what they were doing.

Skye cleared her throat. Thank you. I wish I could have returned to Eskeleth under more promising circumstances.

We understand you… retrieved the Sovereign Blade last night.

Skye shifted in her seat. That was better than saying she’d been to the place her family died, she supposed. She glanced down the table at Minister Varren, who was watching her like a hawk, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. She still couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been wrong about the scene in that tomb, but now didn’t seem the time to bring it up.

I’ll return it to the Great Hall as soon as I can, she said instead, hoping that was safer ground.

Or not. An elderly, dark-skinned woman in a priestess’ robes, further along the table, spoke up. "There is still the matter, Your Highness, of who wielded the Blade. We all know what seems to be the case…"

Skye sucked in a breath, feeling a rush of gratitude that she wasn’t the only one with doubts. It seems impossible to me, she said, her voice shaking a little, "that my father could have been responsible for what happened. It goes against everything I know – we know – about his nature. He would never… never…"

No-one seemed to expect her to finish. Which is why, Your Highness, Borlas said, your aunt Morwenna is in custody.

Aunt Morwenna? Skye blinked owlishly. Her father’s younger sister had also been a third child, and sent to the Conclave for her training. The last Skye knew, though, she’d been in the far reaches of the Empire, protecting trade delegations or diplomats or some such. She’s here?

She returned to Celiande nearly a year ago, Borlas said.

Skye glanced along the table again, almost expecting her aunt to be there. "Wait, you say she’s in custody?"

Your Highness. Borlas’ measured words seemed designed to calm her. Morwenna is the last adult member of the royal family, besides yourself, and the only one to have been in the castle in recent weeks. If your father did not wield the Sovereign Blade, then…

Then Morwenna must have done. Skye could scarce believe it of Morwenna any more than she could of her father, but she could see the Council’s train of thought. Morwenna had been in the vicinity, for a start, and she had an assassin’s training. Only two others of royal blood remained, her uncle’s children, but the eldest of those must barely be old enough to walk. Either her father wielded the Sovereign Blade… or Morwenna did.

I need to speak with her.

Skye was half out of her chair when Varren spoke up. There’s another matter we must discuss first, Your Highness.

Borlas actually growled. Not now, Varren.

Varren, though, went on as if he hadn’t heard. It’s about the succession, Your Highness. About whether you’re the most suitable… candidate.

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence; Skye certainly heard someone’s indrawn breath. How could I not be? she asked.

You’ll forgive me for saying this, Your Highness, but you were never trained to rule. For all your skills, of which I’m sure there are many, statecraft isn’t in your repertoire. There are some of us here on the Council who feel your cousin Perityr would be a more appropriate choice. A… blank slate, if you will.

Skye didn’t need to hear Borlas’ grumbling to know where this was going. A ‘blank slate’, was it? More like an infant king, in whose name the Council would have to rule as regent. Far more tractable than a young woman who’d spent the last six years learning how to kill.

She looked at Varren, at his arms braced on the table, his narrowed eyes, the hard set of his mouth. Light glinted off the Imaldran diamonds in his ear like pinpricks of starlight. None of the sympathy he’d displayed the previous night was in evidence now, just a cold, calculating stare. She’d been right to be uneasy about him; last night must have been a ruse, to test her state of mind – and how much of an obstacle she might be.

Well, if he was expecting an obstacle, obstacle she would be.

Are there any more objections to my presence here? Skye’s hand swept the room, just enough of a flourish to ensure all present saw the stiletto sheathed at her wrist. "Perhaps it has escaped the notice of certain members of this esteemed Council, but my father is dead, as are my brother and sister. To think for one second that I would walk away from a nation consumed by grief, a nation that needs the steady hand of continuity, would be the utmost foolishness."

She glared around the room, doing her best to fix a particularly stern eye on any counsellors who looked to be wavering, but in truth, none of them appeared the slightest bit cowed. She’d been back in Eskeleth less than a day, and hard words would do little to appease grizzled old men and canny women who believed her unfit to rule.

Finally, she looked to Varren. His hands were still clasped in front of his face, but she thought she caught the faintest of smiles about his lips. All in all, he looked far too satisfied with himself. If she caught him up close with that smug look, Skye wouldn’t be held responsible for any violence that might occur.

She got to her feet, forcing the counsellors to stand with her, and Josselyn to step smartly back. Political uncertainty or not, she was still their princess, and outranked every one of them. She had to make sure they didn’t forget it.

This is not the time for dissent, she said, hoping she didn’t sound as strained as she felt. Eskeleth needs security, certainty. I will provide that to my dying breath – and I trust I’ll have your full support in doing so.

She didn’t wait for an answer. The counsellors would have to stew amongst themselves for a while; at least she’d made it clear she wouldn’t simply step aside. Eskeleth’s stability and prosperity had been the life’s work of her father, and she wasn’t about to see that trampled into the mud by power-hungry ministers who wanted to rule from behind the throne. If her years in the Conclave had taught her anything, it was how to fight – and win.

CHAPTER FOUR

Catharsis

Outside the Council Chamber, Skye finally felt able to breathe again, free of the glares of the ministers and the stuffy atmosphere of their disapproval. Her step lightened a touch, until she remembered the careful shadow at her heel.

She wheeled mid-stride, assassin’s reflexes turning the movement into a thing of poise and grace, or so she hoped. She expected her guardian to come up short, to have to catch himself, but Josselyn was already stationary, steady as a statue. He might be cold and humourless, but Skye had to admit he’d suffered through as much training as she had. It didn’t make him any less irritating.

Back, she ordered, pointing down the corridor for emphasis.

Josselyn raised one pale brow. Do you wish to return to the Council Chamber, Your Highness?

No. Skye drew herself up, though she couldn’t match him for height. You, back off a step. You’re stifling me. What if I need room to manoeuvre? To fight?

The eyebrow remained raised. You won’t be required to ‘manoeuvre’, Your Highness, and certainly not to fight. That’s what your guardians are for.

Skye tapped the dagger at her side. "Do you think this is just for show? Back."

Josselyn didn’t reply, but when she set off again at a blistering pace, he was a step farther away than before.

She didn’t need to ask where her aunt was being held. The Granite Keep was replete with dungeons, of course, but there were customs when it came to a royal prisoner, even one accused of regicide. Sure enough, when Skye climbed the steep, winding stairs to the draughty Opaline Tower, there were guards on the landing, sombre-faced and watchful. They hesitated at the sight of her, only for a ringing voice behind to announce her name.

Princess Iskyenna Eskel wishes to visit the prisoner. Josselyn’s previously quiet voice sounded like a horn blast in the enclosed stairwell. Open the doors.

Skye would have turned to glare at him, but the announcement had the desired effect on guards who likely didn’t recognise her, embroidered jacket or not. One readied his halberd as though anticipating attack from within, whilst the other swung wide the door. Skye sighed and pushed past them. Such was the life of a princess, she supposed, to be ‘protected’ at all turns from the dangers others saw in the world, whether she could defeat them herself or not.

The room beyond was flooded with pearly light, the opal windows allowing no view outside, but turning the interior into the heart of a gem. Morwenna was straight-backed in the middle of the room, hands clenched as though they longed to hold a weapon – but at the sight of Skye, her jaw softened a little, a touch of