“I’ve come to implore you to reconsider your command to disband the Order.”
The king sat back in his chair. “I’d rather hoped that you were here to tell me that that was well under way.”
“We’ve come too far, worked too hard, and achieved too much to turn back now, Highness. Every other ruler around the Middle Sea is, at this very moment, considering how to employ magic to strengthen their states. We are ahead of them all.” His head throbbed as he tried to direct his mental energy to force the king to agree with him.
“You’ve seen the mobs outside?” the king said, his tone still even and calm. “You’ve heard the speakers inciting the people to stand up against what they are calling ‘the abomination of magic’?”
“Of course,” Amaury said.
“How long do you think it will be before mobs smash down the palace doors to claim the head of the man—the men—responsible?”
Amaury shrugged.
The king continued, “Chancellor Renaud says it might only be a matter of days. My grandfather was deposed, you know.”
Amaury nodded. Of course I bloody well know.
“I’m told the sentiment in the city was not nearly so vitriolic then as it is now. This is a very serious crisis, Prince Bishop.”
“I understand how serious it is,” Amaury said, his anger and frustration growing at the lack of effect of his magical efforts. “Which is why we must appear strong. Resolute.” He directed every ounce of thought he could at the king. Give in to me. Give in. The king showed no sign of weakening.
Perhaps he needed to drink more from the Cup to achieve his goal. He took the Cup and a flask from his robes.
“I apologise, Highness. I’m developing something of a sore throat. The physician told me to drink of this draught whenever I feel the ache coming on. Would you indulge me a moment?”
The king nodded and gave a flick of his hand to signal his consent. Amaury filled the Cup and raised it to his lips. His hand was shaking again, now out of anger. Who did this pup think he was? Amaury might have steered him down this path, but the boy had agreed to everything. He’d seen the potential in all that Amaury was working toward, had hungered for the benefits it would bring him—and now he was willing to cast all that to the wind, and Amaury with it. Amaury would crush him. Destroy him.
He had swallowed the last drop of water before he realised he had not actually focussed his mind on what he wanted to do, nor had he fully considered just what it was he wanted to do. He took a breath and wondered if the king would permit him a second drink.
Amaury focussed his gaze on the king’s face. Boudain stared at him blankly. The left side of the young man’s face looked as though it had drooped somehow, and Amaury could see dribble slide out of the left-hand corner of his mouth.
“Highness?” Amaury said.
The king let out a strained sound, as though he was trying to say something, but wasn’t able to get the words out.
“Highness?”
The king let out the same strained sound and tried to move, without success. It seemed that more than just his face was paralysed.
Frozen, Amaury wondered, had he done this to the king? Had the anger and frustration he’d felt been visited upon the king by magical force? He had to stop himself from smiling. This could work out far better than I had hoped, he thought.
He stood, put the flask and Cup back into his robe, and went over to the king. He slapped the king’s face gently. “Highness? Highness? Can you hear me?” Though it seemed Boudain could not move, he was glaring angrily at the Prince Bishop. He knew that Amaury had done something to him. He seemed more certain of it than Amaury himself was.
What to do now?
The Prince Bishop opened a drawer in the king’s desk—a special drawer that contained only the document Amaury had insisted the king make out the day he was crowned. The document appointed Amaury, as First Minister of Mirabaya, regent until a new king or queen could be crowned, or chosen by the council of nobles, if there was no direct heir. If the king’s condition continued as it was, and Amaury was most hopeful that it would, then no successor was needed. The king still lived, and long may he live. He did, however, need a regent while he was incapacitated.
The document was there. Amaury breathed a sigh of relief. From the fire to the cauldron. It was unfair of him to be disappointed in the Cup. Perhaps it would be enough after all, even if they never found the temple.
“A wise chancellor would have told you to tear this up the moment you decided to turn on me,” Amaury said, “but I’ve always thought Renaud to be something of a fool. So hard to get good help these days. You should consider yourself fortunate that you have me.”
The king did his best to glare at Amaury. His chin glistened with drool, which was starting to drop onto his expensive doublet.
“Help!” Amaury shouted. “Help! The king’s taken ill! Help!”
There was a commotion outside, then the door burst open. The king’s secretary flew into the room, followed closely by the guards, two of the finest bannerets money could buy—Amaury knew that for a fact; they were both his men.
Amaury looked at the secretary with as much strain on his face as he could muster. “Send for the king’s physician! Quickly!”
He made a show of loosening the king’s collar and mopping his brow and chin with a handkerchief while the guards looked on. The royal physician was never far away—and capable of much less than one of the Order’s more mediocre healers, but the king didn’t have the confidence in them that Amaury did. That thought reminded the Prince Bishop that he should get some treatment for his hip—it had felt a little stiff on his way to the king’s office. The sooner he could get someone capable of performing a lasting treatment, the better.
As Amaury continued his show of caring for the wounded King—whose eyes remained tight little balls of fury—the physician arrived.
“What’s happened,” asked the man, a self-important professor from the university’s School of Medical Arts.
“I’m not sure,” Amaury said. “We were discussing matters of state one moment, and the next, he began slurring his words, then slumped a little in his chair and seemed to lose the power of speech.”
The physician pushed Amaury to one side and began inspecting the king. Every so often he would let out a “hmmm.” He continued this for what struck Amaury as an unnecessarily long time. It seemed obvious that the king had suffered a malady of the brain. Such things were not entirely unusual in people under a great deal of stress, though on this occasion, the origin had been quite different.
Eventually the physician stood.
“It would appear His Highness has suffered an attack of apoplexy. How severe it is, I cannot say at this point. He’s a young and healthy man, which makes apoplexy a little unusual, but all things considered, I expect he’s under a great deal of stress. Once the initial trauma has subsided, I suspect he will recover almost completely, but until then, he must rest and be given around-the-clock care. My staff and his usual servants will be able to take care of that.”
“Thank you for your prompt diagnosis, Royal Physician,” Amaury said. “Please put into motion whatever measures you feel are necessary to speed His Highness to a complete recovery.”
The royal physician nodded with a mix of magnanimity and benevolence, as though his influence would fix all. Such men were easy to manipulate, so Amaury loved dealing with them. A little flattery, the display of more respect than was warranted, and Amaury was confident he could get the man to dance a jig.