Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

Chapter 78: The Grand Duke Visits the Palace Uninvited (1)

"We are leaving," I said.

Captain Arthur looked at the urgent note in my hand, then at the red bell resting inside its fractured glass casing. The Cantor remained pinned to the floor between two Sonomi knights, blood dried at the corner of his mouth, his blindfold slipped around his neck now, revealing those unsettling eyes of his. The black veins beneath them pulsed faintly whenever the bell below the reservoir gave one of its weak, trapped tremors.

He was listening. Not to us. To something farther away.

"The chapel isn’t secured yet," Arthur said.

"I’m aware."

"The palace is under attack."

"I’m aware of that too."

"Then I should accompany you."

I looked at him, and he looked back with the particular expression of a man already prepared to argue with his superior until either he won or someone struck him unconscious. Admirable. Also exhausting.

"Captain Arthur," I said, "you will remain here. The choir chamber is still active. The bells may be weakened, but the aqueduct routes remain open. There are hidden rooms above us, tunnels beneath us, and at least one man who’s been singing to stolen voices for far too long. If we leave this place without securing it, someone will use the confusion to move prisoners, destroy evidence, or start whatever the third instruction is."

"The third opens," Abi offered lightly.

I looked at him. He raised both hands. "What? It was written on the walls."

"Don’t say it as though that improves the situation."

"It doesn’t. I simply dislike being excluded from the discussion."

The Cantor laughed weakly from the floor. "Too late," he whispered. "The path is already open."

Arthur took one step toward him, and I raised a hand to stop him.

"How does the sound reach the palace?" I asked the Cantor.

He looked at me, his pupils narrowing. "The prince carries it."

"Carries what?"

"The first answer."

"That’s not an answer."

His smile twitched. "You know enough already."

"I know that you’re irritating."

His gaze moved to the red bell. "His blood remembers the thread."

Abi went still beside me. I did not, at least not visibly. The first hymn had been tied to the Crown Prince’s body, the rite leaving something incomplete inside him, a tether, a wound, a path someone wanted to reopen through bells and voices and whatever miserable ritual logic had convinced adults that children made acceptable tools.

Fine. I had enough to work with.

"Arthur," I said, "secure this chamber. The Cantor remains alive. So does Father Edric. Separate them. Don’t let either one speak to the bell, don’t let anyone write names near it, no chanting, no prayers, no helpful attempts to cleanse the room through faith."

He nodded. "What about the pipes?"

"Mark every connection first. Bernard will need the layout."

"Bernard is above."

"He’ll remain above. Send the map to him."

Arthur’s gaze flickered toward the red bell. "And the echoes inside it?"

My eyes followed his. The bell sat quiet beneath the fractured glass, too quiet, though I could still remember the sound that had come from it when my sword stopped short, the voices caught inside, the fear, the pleas, pieces of people who’d been made into something useful for someone else. I disliked it. I disliked it deeply.

"No one touches it," I said. "Place a ward around the casing, salt cloth beneath, aura thread above. If it begins ringing again, send word immediately."

His expression turned grim. "Yes, Your Excellency." Then, "Captain."

"Yes?"

"Don’t let anyone tell you this is merely temple business."

His eyes hardened. "They won’t."

"Good."

I turned to Abi. "Can you get us to the palace?"

His gaze shifted past me, as though he could see straight through stone and street and the whole Capital toward the eastern wing where the Crown Prince was trapped.

"Not inside," he said. "The palace wards are awake now. If I force a path through them, every old seal in that place will start screaming."

"How close?"

"To the outer garden wall."

"Close enough."

He smiled faintly. "Your definition of close is concerning."

"My definition of close gets things done."

"That’s also concerning."

I started toward the stairs. Behind us, the Cantor began laughing again, not loudly, not with joy, and the sound followed us through the chamber. "You think you’re saving him," he called. "But the second hymn is only asking him to become what he was meant to be."

I stopped, and looked back over my shoulder slowly. His eyes were fixed on me.

"What people are meant to be," I said, "is usually decided by someone who wants something from them." His smile faded. "Arthur."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Make certain he has time to reconsider his beliefs."

His expression went very calm. "Yes, Your Excellency."

I left before the captain could become enthusiastic about that.

The moment we reached the base of the stairway, Abi caught my wrist, and violet light curled around us. The reservoir chamber folded away, not vanished, folded, the stone walls stretching into lines, the red lamps blurring into smears in the dark. For one uncomfortable breath, the pressure of the chapel, the old aqueduct, and the voices trapped inside the bell seemed to pass straight through my bones.

Then cold air struck my face, and we stood beneath an archway behind the eastern palace gardens.

Abi released my wrist. I looked around. The outer palace wall rose several feet ahead, white stone visible through the trees, the formal gardens abandoned in haste. A serving cart lay overturned beside a hedge, one porcelain tray shattered across the path, small pastries scattered over the grass.

A ridiculous sight. The Capital in danger of being eaten by a buried ritual, and somewhere in the middle of it, someone had lost dessert.

"How wasteful," I muttered.

Abi glanced at the pastries. "You’re upset about that?"

"They looked expensive."

"You’re impossible."

"That’s why you’re still here."

The eastern wing stood visible beyond the trees, its windows sealed with pale silver wards, thin lines of light crossing the stone between them, pulsing faintly whenever a distant bell sounded. The bells hadn’t stopped, only weakened, broken unevenly across the city, a tower bell from the west, a temple chime from the upper district, something metallic ringing under the palace floor itself. The sounds didn’t match, and they weren’t supposed to. Together they formed the shape of a hymn. Not music. An instruction.

We crossed the garden quickly. Two palace guards blocked the service gate before we reached it, their armor bearing the imperial crest, their faces pale beneath their helmets. One held a spear too tightly. The other had blood on his sleeve, though I couldn’t tell whether it was his own.

"Stop," the older guard ordered, stepping into our path. "The eastern wing is under sealed command by Her Majesty."

I held out the Crown Prince’s letter. He looked at the broken wax, then at me.

"Your Excellency," he said, "Her Majesty has ordered that no one enters."

"Then it’s fortunate I’m not no one."

The younger guard swallowed hard. "Her Majesty said the ward cannot be opened."

"Did she say that, or did someone repeat it to you?"

The older guard hesitated, and I caught it. "Someone repeated it," I said.

Abi smiled, and the guards noticed him properly for the first time, their eyes moving to his violet gaze. The air around him was still, but not empty, holding the pressure of something that didn’t belong in a servant’s garden behind a palace wing.

The younger guard took a step back. "Lord Abinatha," he said cautiously.

"Good evening," Abi replied.

"It’s late afternoon," the guard said, before he could stop himself.

Abi blinked, then looked at the sky. "How embarrassing. I’ve lost track of time." The guard seemed unsure whether to apologize, so I spared him the trouble.

"Who gave the order?" I asked.

"Lord Keeper Marcellus’s deputy, Your Excellency."

My expression stayed pleasant. Of course he had. Marcellus was sitting in my blue room with untouched tea while his deputy had apparently been handed enough authority to lock down the exact palace wing where the Crown Prince was trapped.

"How efficient," I said.

The older guard frowned. "Your Excellency?"

"Nothing. Open the gate."

"We cannot."

I looked at the silver lines crossing it. The ward had been laid from inside, and not by the guards, not by a normal palace mage either. It carried the same faint taste of black salt and temple oil that had lingered beneath Saint Orison’s.

My smile disappeared. "Abi."

"Yes, brother?"

"Can you open it without breaking the ward?"

He stepped closer, his hand hovering over the silver lines. "No," he said after a moment. "But I can tell you something unpleasant."

"How generous."

"The ward isn’t keeping something out." He looked at me. "It’s keeping someone in."

The younger guard went pale. The older one tightened his grip on his spear. "That’s impossible," he said.

"No," I replied. "It’s merely inconvenient."

From inside the eastern wing came a sound, not a scream, not yet, a sharp gasp, a body striking furniture, someone shouting for the Crown Prince. The gate shook. The younger guard flinched.

I stepped forward. "Open it."

"Your Excellency, we have orders."

"So do I."

"From whom?"

I looked at the gate, then at the palace beyond it. "From the person who owns this problem now."