“I didn’t know that,” Jorey said.
“I didn’t tell you. Men don’t put their burdens on their children. I didn’t tell your mother. It isn’t hers to bear. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Vanai was different. There was no need for it.”
Dawson opened his mouth to say something—hopefully something wise and comforting—but he felt the thoughts come into place with an almost physical click. Vanai. Issandrian. The armed mercenaries riding to Camnipol under the thin claim of honoring Prince Aster. The occupying force returning from the south, Geder Palliako at its head.
“Ah,” Dawson said.
“Father?”
“Where is Palliako? Is he here?”
“No. With the men. A week behind me, perhaps?”
“Too far. We need him back sooner than that.”
Dawson was on his feet again. He threw open the door, shouting for Coe. The huntsman might have been waiting for him. The first instructions were simple enough: find the others. Not only Canl Daskellin, but all the half dozen men who’d thrown their lots with him. Time was short, and victory uncertain. Coe didn’t question, only saluted and vanished. When he turned back, Jorey looked bewildered.
Dawson raised his hand, stopping the questions before they came.
“I need one last favor of you before you rest, my boy. I’m sorry to ask, but I believe the fate of the throne rests on it.”
“Anything.”
“Bring me Geder Palliako. And quickly.”
“I will.”
“And Jorey? Vanai’s death may have saved us.”
Hardly an hour passed before Dawson’s guests arrived. In addition to Odderd and Daskellin, the Earl of Rivermarch and Baron Nurring came. The others weren’t at home, and Coe had gone back out searching for them. This, however, was enough. Five men, all commanding the loyalty of high families and strategic lands, sat or stood or, in Canl Daskellin’s case, paced restlessly around the back wall. They still wore the brocade and embroidered hats they’d sported at Issandrian’s parade. Clara had brought in two servant girls bearing a tray of water flavored with cucumbers and rounds of twice-baked cheeses that still stood untouched by the wall.
In the time between the courier’s arrival at Simeon’s side and now, a dozen rumors had already spread. Dawson could see the uncertainty on the faces before him, and he could feel it on the breeze. His own sense of urgency was like a live thing crawling on his back. If this were to be done, it had to be done quickly, before the court had time to decide what the news meant. Before Simeon had the time.
Like a priest before his congregation, Dawson lifted his hands.
“The slaughter of—” he began, then stopped. “The sacrifice of Vanai has come like a torch in our darkest hour. And the salvation of the Severed Throne is at hand.”
The silence was profound.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Daskellin said.
“Let him talk,” the Earl of Rivermarch said. Dawson nodded his gratitude.
“Consider this. Geder Palliako is known to have been at odds with Sir Alan Klin, one of Issandrian’s closest allies, almost from the beginning. He managed to supplant Klin as protector of Vanai—”
“He managed?” Daskellin said.
“—and rather than use his position to gain wealth or play court politics, he made a decision. A brave and principled decision.”
“Geder Palliako,” Daskellin said, running a hand through his hair, “is a buffoon we lifted up in order to embarrass Issandrian by making the occupation of Vanai a bog. He’s an untried youth whose entire military experience has been taking an arrow in the leg and falling off his horse. Now he also appears to be a bloodthirsty tyrant in the mix. By tonight, Issandrian will have a dozen men who’ll swear that his appointment was our doing, and it’s almost certain that one of those will be Lord Ternigan. We won’t be able to deny it.”
Dawson could see the unease in the eyes of the other men, the slope of their shoulders, the angles at which they held their heads. If he answered rage with rage, it would end here with the two of them snapping at each other like pit dogs and the confidence of the cabal broken. Dawson smiled, and Daskellin spat into the ashes of the fire grate.
“Deny it?” Dawson said. “I’ll sit at Palliako’s side and be proud. Or did all of you see some different parade than I saw today? Has is not occurred to anyone else that several hundred loyal Anteans under Palliako’s command are marching to Camnipol as we speak?”
“I don’t understand,” Odderd said.
“Here is what we say,” Dawson said. “When Palliako discovered that Issandrian was bringing an armed force into Camnipol, he chose to bring his troops to the defense of the throne. Rather than abandon Vanai to our enemies, he took action that would show the steel of his intent. He didn’t scrape the city of every last bit of silver. He didn’t trade it away for concessions on tariffs. He burned it like a warrior of old. Like the dragons. What other man in all of Antea is so fierce and pure of intention? Who else would have done what he did?”
“But the king gave permission to hold these games. And this army coming to save us? Half of the men are Issandrian’s, and the others disdain Palliako at best,” Daskellin said. “This is a fairy story.”
“They don’t disdain him. They fear him. And if we all say it loud enough and often enough Issandrian will fear him too,” Dawson said. “And since our lives may depend on it, I’d suggest we all practice in chorus.”
“So this is what desperation looks like,” Daskellin said. Dawson ignored him.
“If Issandrian moves against us, it will show that Palliako was justified. If he doesn’t, it will be because Palliako cowed him. Either way, Issandrian loses some part of his grip on the king. And we do it without selling ourselves to Northcoast and the Medean bank. This is a windfall, my lords. We’d be idiots to turn it away. But we must go tell our version of it now. Today. When the court goes to bed tonight, it’s our story they have to whisper to their pillows. Wait until opinion is set, and it will be a hundred times harder to change.”
“And if Issandrian turns his plot against this Palliako boy?” Barron Nurring said.
“Then the blade meant for your belly may be stuck in his instead,” Dawson said. “Now. Tell me you wouldn’t prefer that.”
Geder
Geder’s thighs were chapped and weeping. His back ached. The spring breeze that blew down from the heights smelled of snow and ice. Around him, the remnants of the Vanai campaign rode or marched. They sang no songs, and no one spoke to Geder apart from the bare necessary business of moving the few hundred men, carts, and horses the last few days’ journey. Even in his tiny rooms in Vanai with only his lamp-eyed squire for company and Alan Klin’s worst duties to fill his day, Geder hadn’t felt the full power of being isolated within a crowd.
He could feel the attention of the men on him, the condemnation. No one said a word, of course. Not one among them all stood up and told Geder to his face that he was a monster. That what he’d done was worse than crime. There wasn’t any need, because of course Geder knew. In all the long days and cold nights since he’d turned back to the north and home, the roar of the flames hadn’t left his ears. His dreams had all been of men and women silhouetted against the fire. He’d been ordered to protect Vanai, and instead he’d done this. If King Simeon ordered him cut down on the throne room floor, it would only be justice.
He had tried to distract himself with his books, but even the legends of the Righteous Servant couldn’t pull him away from the constant, gnawing question: what would the king’s judgment be? On his best days, Geder imagined King Simeon stepping down from the Severed Throne itself to put a royal hand on Geder’s weeping eyes and absolving him. On his worst, the king sent him back to Vanai to be staked to the ground among the dead and eaten by the same crows that had gorged themselves on their bodies.