She emerged from the tunnel’s shadow into the courtyard dappled with autumn sun. Over centuries, war after war, battle after battle had ended at the impenetrable fortress wall, dashed against the weathered brown stone-no Kanosee had ever set foot here in the long and turbulent history between the two countries. It had taken a woman-a woman of extraordinary powers, but a woman nonetheless-to finally lead them beyond the storied barricade. She held her head high and stifled another smile.
People lined the boulevard-mostly soldiers dressed in leather and mail standing rigid and ready, hands close to their weapons, but there were others, too. Smiths and farriers, cooks and physicians and entertainers and whores. No one cheered as four hundred hooves clicked and clattered against the cobblestone boulevard, throwing up occasional sparks from the scarred stones. Not a face wore a smile, nor a look of relief or gratitude. Frowns tugged at the corners of their mouths, expressions of worry and fear creased their features. Their apprehension didn’t surprise her.
Surrounded by a group of men clad in full plate, Therrador stood on a stone stair leading to a huge building at the far end of the avenue. She recognized the new king easily amongst the group, the red eagle enameled upon his golden plate resplendent in the sunlight; the armor of the other men paled in comparison. The others would be the generals of Erechania, supporting and protecting their king, advising him if need be, and none of them looked any less tense than the soldiers lining the route boulevard.
But the generals would have no reason to advise him, she knew. He already made his decisions based on the safety of his son held captive in her camp, and he would continue to decide whatever she wanted him to decide, as he did when he agreed to let them into the fortress.
Although orchestrating the death of King Braymon and arranging Therrador’s ascent to the throne had seemed to work as she’d foreseen, she couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t quite done. Any possibility of a smile disappeared at the thought; the man who carried the blood of the king to the Necromancer had failed in his attempt to raise Braymon, but he yet lived. As long as he did, he posed a threat to the Archon’s plans. She’d have to take care of him, but these were thoughts for another time; she pushed them from her mind and focused on the fortress’ courtyard.
Beyond the distraught Erechanians, the Archon saw patches of charred earth and wooden outbuildings lying in ruin, their ceilings and walls smashed and burned by the fireballs lobbed over the wall by her army’s catapults. Of course, any bodies had long since been cleared away, and she found herself wondering where Braymon had fallen, what they’d done with the king’s body. She’d have liked to keep his head as a trophy, but she hadn’t thought to mention it to the soldier she’d sent to kill the king.
What was his name again? Oh, yes: Ghaul. How appropriate.
She reined her horse to a halt at the base of the stair and Therrador descended, his plate clanking as he signaled his generals to stay. He stopped three steps short of the bottom, his head on the same level as the mounted Archon. His mouth dropped open, recognition showing in his eyes.
“You,” he said quiet enough only the two of them heard. “You’re the woman from the plains.”
“Oh, more than just a woman, my dear Therrador.”
“And you command an army?” he said, eyes narrowing. “The Archon is a woman? And a magician?”
“Therrador, misogyny and underestimation are two very poor attributes for a king to have.” Therrador noticeably suppressed a shudder as he realized things were measurably worse than he’d imagined. She savored him having the thought. “You may call me your grace.”
She held her hand out to the king at an angle for him to see the pictures painted on her nails: battles, slaughter, the destruction of Erechania and the death of his son. Therrador stared at the depictions, the stern look melting from his face, then took her fingers gently in his and kissed the back of her hand.
“Traitor!” A woman stepped out of the throng watching from the edge of the cobblestones, a stone in her hand. “Scarlet whore!”
The woman hurled the rock, but the Archon simply gestured with her free hand and the projectile came to a halt in mid-air, hovering for a second before tumbling to the ground. The crowd gasped. At the same time, the blade of a Kanosee dagger thrown by one of the Archon’s personal guard found the stone-thrower’s chest and she followed the stone to the ground, as lifeless as the rock. The crowd watched in stunned silence for a second before a thousand hands reached for a thousand weapons. Kanosee steel sang from their scabbards.
“Stop them or they will all die,” the Archon said to Therrador, her voice calm, knowing.
She felt power swell inside her, a feeling she relished, but it didn’t suit her purposes to slaughter all these people. The point wasn’t to simply take a fortress, but to have a country. Therrador stared at her and she saw the force of the magic building within her reflected in his eyes. He tore his gaze away and ran a few steps up the stair.
“No,” he bellowed. “Hold!”
The crowd did as he said, though their weapons remained bared. A grumble rolled through the throng, discordant dissent barely held in check.
“Put away your weapons,” Therrador said and the troubled faces in the crowd turned toward their king. “Let no one raise their hand against the Archon or her men. The people of Kanos are our friends.”
“But look what our friends have done,” a man kneeling beside the dead woman called, his voice full of tears. “They’ve killed my Lera.”
A portion of the crowd rumbled with angry agreement, but most remained silent, awaiting the king’s response. Therrador considered the man for a moment, but said nothing, as though at a loss for words. One of the king’s generals spoke in his stead.
“As she threatened to kill their leader. What would you have done if they first threatened your wife? Or your king?”
The general’s cheeks reddened as he spoke, his huge black mustache quivered with each word. The Archon knew this man to be the one called Alton Sienhin, one of Braymon’s closest and most trusted advisors.
“Put your weapons away,” Therrador said finding words again. “You only hurt the kingdom by drawing them.”
Dissatisfied mutters passed person to person, but swords returned to scabbards, daggers to sheaths, axes slung over shoulders. Therrador looked to Sir Alton and thanked him with a nod before returning his gaze to the Archon.
“I am sorry for this,” he said, though his expression suggested he wished the stone had found its mark and struck her dead. He glanced at his subjects watching him, waiting to see what he would do next. “The people will get used to having you amongst us.”
Feeling gracious, the Archon nodded and smiled. The feeling of power diminished, leaving her enervated as it always did, but she retained her composure. She leaned forward, beckoned Therrador. He moved closer.
“Your Graymon will not be punished for it,” she whispered. The color drained from the king’s cheeks. “Be sure it does not happen again, though, Therrador. I cannot promise the same next time.”
The king stood stiff for a moment, then gestured to a group of soldiers clad in red capes trimmed with gold.
“Take their horses to the stables. Show the Archon’s men to their quarters.” He smiled tightly and offered his hand; his eyes remained hard and suspicious. “Archon, I will show you to your suite myself so you can prepare. A feast awaits.”
She took his hand and dismounted. Only after her feet touched the ground did her men do the same. Pages and grooms ushered horses and men off in different directions; Therrador led the Archon up the stairs toward the group of generals. She peeked over her shoulder and noticed the crowd’s frowns remained, as did their fear and worry. She felt it, savored it.