Better just to tell them.
“Braymon was no casualty of war. His death was planned.”
The men drew a collective gasp. Sir Alton leaned forward, his ruddy face deepening to a shade of crimson. Dondon’s eyes widened; Turesti’s hand went to his mouth.
“What do you mean, your highness?” Hanh Perdaro asked.
Therrador looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. He’d always liked Perdaro, but suddenly found himself wondering about him. The Voice of the People usually knew all, seemingly before it happened sometimes. Did he already know what Therrador had to tell? Was this reaction for show?
Therrador looked down at his bandaged hand in his lap, at the blood soaked through where his thumb should have been. It didn’t serve to fortify him as he hoped it might; instead, it saddened him because of the mistakes he’d made.
Damn the Archon. Damn Sheyndust.
“It was planned from the start that I should take the throne of Erechania. I’ve been in league with the Archon since soon after Seerna’s death.”
Sienhin stood abruptly sending his chair clattering to the floor; his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Therrador didn’t move.
“Treachery,” the general bellowed. Even his bushy moustache couldn’t hide the frown on his lips, the hurt in his eyes. “Assassin! You killed the king.”
The other men stared at Therrador, disbelieving or formulating responses. Sienhin was the least political of the bunch, a soldier who rose to the highest ranks on the tail of Braymon’s revolution, so his emotional reaction offered no surprise. The others were no doubt considering in what way what they’d heard would best benefit them.
Therrador thought about how to respond to Sir Alton’s outburst. As the king, he had the right to command him, or he could rise to the inferred challenge. Neither path would solve his problems.
Just the truth, then.
“She has Graymon.”
The room seemed to freeze. No one moved, scarcely even breathed, all eyes on Therrador as he fought to retain composure. He’d never admitted any of this to any save his own reflection, and then even the mirror had looked upon him with judgment in its eyes.
“She has the boy?” Perdaro repeated, his voice quiet. Therrador nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Lord Emon Turesti, the High Chancellor of Erechania asked. “We would have helped.”
“I thought I could set things right myself,” Therrador replied, eyes cast down upon his bandaged hand.
“The Archon is powerful. She-” Perdaro began.
“She’s a devil,” interrupted Hu Dondon, Lord Chamberlain of the Kingdom.
“She has your son,” Sir Alton said through clenched teeth, voice quieter, but his tone still betrayed his anger. “But that doesn’t explain why you killed the king.”
Therrador shook his head and met the general’s eyes. “I made a mistake, and I know I’ll pay for it, but there are bigger concerns for the kingdom now.”
“A treacherous king is a concern,” Dondon said.
“Truly,” Emon Turesti agreed as he fidgeted with his long fingers. “But more importantly, the Kanosee occupy our fortress. What are we to do about that?”
A hush fell over the room as the five men pondered the kingdom’s predicament. Sir Alton’s fingers loosened from the hilt of his sword and he glanced over his shoulder at the chair lying on the floor behind him but didn’t move to retrieve it. Turesti gazed at his entwining fingers; Dondon and Perdaro stared at the king.
“How is Graymon?” Hanh Perdaro asked finally.
“I tried to rescue him,” Therrador explained, his voice quiet. “But I was caught. As punishment, she’s sending him back to Kanos.” A pause, then he brought his bandage-wrapped hand from his lap and set it gingerly on the table. “And she took my thumb.”
“Gods,” Sir Alton spat. “She is a devil.”
“No, she’s no devil.” Therrador shook his head and raised his right hand. “I deserved this. Not for trying to save my son, but for what I’ve done to the kingdom. But she is responsible for raising the undead soldiers who fight beside her troops. She’s-”
“A Necromancer,” Dondon said completing his sentence. Therrador nodded.
Sir Alton retrieved his chair and slumped down into it dejectedly. “Things go from bad to worse.”
“Perhaps not.” Hanh Perdaro leaned forward on his elbows. The others waited for him to say more but he allowed the pause to linger.
“What do you mean, Hanh?” Turesti finally asked. “Out with it.”
The Voice of the People cleared his throat. “The Archon-Necromancer, whatever she calls herself-she holds your son, correct?”
“Yes, I told you.”
“So she thinks you her puppet, Therrador. Her pawn. The king of Erechania will do whatever he’s told in order to keep his son safe.”
“Of course,” Sir Alton agreed before Therrador could. The general once had a son, but the boy had been lost during one of the last skirmishes when Braymon took the throne. Twenty years had done little to dispel the sting of it for the tough old soldier.
“As long as she thinks her word is being done, we can enact our own plans now that we all know what’s happened.”
Perdaro looked around the table at the others, a meager smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
“But what to do about a treacherous king?” Hu Dondon asked. Therrador looked at him, suppressing his ire at the comment-he deserved the punishment that would come.
“Nothing right now,” Turesti said nodding slightly in agreement with Perdaro’s words. “First we must neutralize the Kanosee threat. We’ll have to bring the people of the kingdom together, and for that they must have a king.”
Everyone at the table nodded.
“I’ll get the word to the people,” Perdaro said. “Tell them the version of the truth that will most suit our purposes for the moment.”
Therrador sighed. This hadn’t been as bad as he’d imagined. He’d thought his head might have ended up atop a pole in the courtyard before the end of the day.
“Rest assured, though,” Sir Alton said leaning toward Therrador. “When rightness is restored to the kingdom, we’ll deal with our traitor king.”
Chapter Thirteen
The city reeks of the evil it is rife with, like a stinking fruit hanging rotten on the vine. Daylight has recently left the sky as I approach the unguarded gates of the once great city, the place where an empire was born thousands of years ago. There’s no empire found here now, only cutthroats and thieves, rapists and murderers. Statues and temples stand in ruin. Steel is the one God who holds sway here-his last refuge from the Godly brethren who spurned him millennia ago.
I walk through the splintered gates, haphazard on their hinges, and up a shallow rise, keeping to the side of the street to avoid the stream of sewage flowing down the middle. A child with half an arm missing sits against a wall and glares at me as I pass; an unfamiliar feeling twinges in my chest as I wonder how much older the boy will be allowed to grow in such a place. I push it aside, thinking instead about killing the man named Khirro.
A shout and the sound of splintering wood; I’m surprised there’s still anything left here to be broken. I amend my path toward the sounds because I know I’ll find people there, and with people come tests.
The street I turn onto narrows and the stench grows in the smaller space, but I pay it no heed. I’ve been to the Fields of the Dead and had to leave it behind, I’ve spent time in the Void-I couldn't care less about bad smells. Rats scurry past, chased by a cat that looks more like bigger vermin than a feline. As I approach the end of the lane and the square it ends at, my hand finds the hilt of my sword. What little trepidation I might have had disappears at the feel of its leather on the palm of my hand.
There are people in the square, men mostly, staggering and laughing. A group of three sing a bawdy song discordantly, yelling the most offensive words. There are a few women, too, dressed in soiled and torn dresses that may once have been beautiful. They call to the men, shouting to be heard above the drunken din, promising passion for a small sum as they cup their breasts with grubby hands and cracked fingernails. One woman is bent over the wooden railing outside a bustling public house, her skirt hiked up above her waist as a man thrusts into her from behind. She cleans dirt from under her fingernails with the tip of a small knife while he rams his hips against her.