KINGMAKERS PART 5.5

The palace staff were preparing for the nightly feast before Marguerite arrived with her distraction. I know because the throne room is lined with long tables, sagging beneath the weight of a banquet fit for a king.

Dripping sizzling drops of fat onto a bed of fluffy white potato mash, a dozen succulent duckies are the crowns of the feast. Barrels of golden ale imported from the western coast tower beside the dais, competing with the throne for height. And rainbows of fattened fruit tinge the air sickly sweet—or is that the blood?

It's a shame the feast is ruined now, speckled with gore from the dead who crowd the throne room's pale marble floor. Marguerite's allies are dead; Julien's are, too. Yet the king and the actress still stand, the latter blocking the gaping maw of the alternate entrance to the tunnels.

I finger the blade of my own throwing knife as I hide in the shadows, waiting for my chance.

"Give it up Julien," Marguerite says in that dramatic way of hers.

Julien slashes his sword, thick with blood, and gives a throaty laugh. "You think I fear you, silly rose? Perhaps I should remind you why I am deserving of your fear."

"Don't fear me then, I care not," Marguerite spits. "But the others are waiting in the tunnels. You will die here or you will die there but either way, you will die."

"I cannot be killed, little fool! Yea, though I walk through the shadow-filled valley, I fear no evil. For I am god and God cannot be destroyed."

"Then I'm sure you will understand what I mean," says Marguerite, "when I say, selah."

Marguerite switches her grip, one elegant knife in each hand, and lunges. Julien raises his sword to meet her. Stepping into the light and only slightly to the right, I release my own small dagger.

The dagger whirrs, slicing through the tension as only a knife can. The world seems to pause; the chandeliers flicker. Through the wood and my cloak and the fabric of my shirt, I feel the king's unholy heart lurch.

And the dagger sticks in Marguerite's breast.

Her pursuit of the king halts and her eyes widen. She looks down, hands clutching the hilt protruding from her heart. The actress gasps and falls to her knees only now, it is not for show.

Somehow, her eyes find mine. They flash once with betrayal before she teeters and falls. A pool forms around her and her dark hair turns crimson with it. At least now I see why they call her the Rose.

"Quentin." The King sheathes his sword, flashing me a grin limned in relief. "Just in time. I thought perhaps you had betrayed me, too."

I nudge aside bodies as I wind toward Marguerite's to retrieve my dagger. "I am loyal to the throne." I tug my dagger free, sending a new torrent rushing around my feet.

"Indeed," says Julien. "And the throne thanks you."

I turn to face him, reaching into my cloak to pull free the polished box. "I said I am loyal to the throne. But you, imposter, have never belonged upon it."

Julien's gaze snaps to the box, the thing within pattering faster. "Where did you get that?"

"How foolish," I say, "to keep something so precious in a place so obvious. But it was never intelligence that got you here, was it Julien?"

Julien's pale skin blanches. "Give it to me and I'll let you leave with your life."

"No pretty speeches now, my king?" I lift the bloody dagger and use it to pry open the lid. "Just as well, I don't think you're in a position to negotiate."

I place the tip of my blade just above the soft tissue of the king's own heart. The pulse seems to reverberates through the metal and to my bones, rattling me. But not enough to make me lose my nerve.

"You were always a fucking liar," Julien hisses, eyes glazing with rage. "Of all of us, you were the closest to the throne. Yet you never had the balls to take it. To plot for it. To kill for it as I have."

"You mean," I say, "as Amelie did for you?"

"Where is the bitch?" Julien swivels his head and searches the shadows for her. "Come out, come out, One Shot Lady! I know these fools couldn't come up with this plot on their own!"

I prick his heart with my blade and Julien stumbles forward, clutching his chest.

"You're a monster," I tell him. "But after today, you won't scare anyone anymore."

"A monster?" Julien laughs. "I killed my enemies and the enemies of my kingdom. All for the people!"

"All for yourself."

"Yet you," continues Julien as if I didn't speak at all, "have murdered a woman you once called friend. For what? For this cursed crown? No! Was it so the one who always wanted me would finally love you? She will never love you. Not the way she loved—"

I plunge the dagger before he can say the last word.

King Julien falls. Blood runs down his mouth and staining the collar of his white robes like the cherries he ate so gluttonously this morning. His crown tumbles away with a solid clang, his chest falling still all at once.

And finally, King Julien is dead.

Like celebratory cannon fire, two shots rings out from the tunnel's dark entrance.

My mouth is on the verge of a smile as she strolls from the black, her moonbeam hair unbound and sunshine skin glistening.

But then there is pain.

Pain blooming in my gut.

Pain blooming in my chest.

I look down. Down, at the holes.

My tongue is too heavy to speak, my legs too weak to help me stand.

I crash to the floor and a chill settles over me—or is that her shadow as she crouches at my side?

"Thank you for keeping Rueben safe and helping me win him his rightful crown," she says. "My dear boy will never hunger again and, for that alone, I will bring flowers to your grave often."

"I thought you l-loved—" My words drown in the wetness flooding my throat.

Amelie presses one hot hand to my cooling cheek. "Oh Quentin," she says with sad, soft smile. "You honestly thought I would make the same mistake twice?"