Mecilli accepted the page and read it slowly. After a few moments, his eyebrows rose and his face grew pale and waxen. Behind him, near the farther wall of the tent, Basrahip made his way through the press of men to take a position where Geder could see him.
“Lord Mecilli?” Geder said, letting the syllables roll gently through his mouth, willing himself back to the feelings of anger and righteousness that he’d let slip. “Do you recognize this letter?”
“No, Lord Regent. I have never seen this before.”
The tent was silent for a long moment, and then, to Geder’s surprise and horror, Basrahip nodded. Mecilli was speaking the truth.
“You didn’t write this?”
“No.”
Geder felt a lump growing in his throat. He’d pulled them halfway across the country for almost weeks for nothing. It had been a hoax. They would all go back to Antea with stories of how someone had made a joke of Geder Palliako.
“Did you write something similar to it?”
“No.”
“Are you part of a conspiracy against me?”
“I am not.”
With every reply, Mecilli’s voice grew calmer, firmer, and more certain. And at the tent’s rear wall, Basrahip certified each of them true. The goddess held her hand over Mecilli’s head and exonerated him. The press of bodies and the thickness of twice-breathed air called forth sweat and a lightheadedness that felt like being sick. He’d been tricked. He’d been made fun of. All of the signs and signals between the men had been figments of his fevered imagination. Somewhere, the true author of the letters was laughing.
With a sense of dread, he held out the letter that pretended to come from Ternigan.
“Lord Ternigan, did you write this letter?”
“No, Lord Regent,” Ternigan said, his voice calm and vaguely pitying.
Basrahip shook his head. No. That was not true. Geder took in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly. The anger felt like relief. Like being saved.
“Say that again,” Geder said. “Tell me that you didn’t write that letter.”
Ternigan’s eyes fluttered and he glanced at Mecilli.
“I misspoke, Lord Regent. I did write that letter, but not for the reasons it might seem. My intention was to discover whether any such conspiracy actually existed.”
Basrahip scowled, and Geder understood the problem.
“One question at time, Lord Marshal. Did you write this letter?”
“I did.”
“Did you write it in hopes of taking the regency for yourself.”
“No,” Ternigan said. “Never that.”
The faintest ghost of a smile touched the corners of Basrahip’s mouth. He shook his head. No, that was not true. Geder’s anger came back in its full glory now. He smiled.
“Lord Ternigan? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Do you think you can lie to me?”
“I would never lie to you,” Ternigan said, and tried to take a step back, but Daskellin and one of the guardsmen were already in the space. Ternigan turned, looking for a path through the men to the door. Or a wall that could be pushed through. Escape.
“Have you called me a buffoon, my lord?”
“No!” Ternigan cried, but it was beyond all doubt. Geder spat on Ternigan’s feet. Here was the great Lord Ternigan, war hero of Antea, cowering like a child before his angry father. Here was the man who’d thought Geder was laughable and small and stupid enough that he could wrest the throne from him. That the instigator had falsely claimed to be Mecilli didn’t signify. Geder knew the truth of the betrayal from Ternigan’s own living voice. That was more than enough.
“Lord Ternigan,” Geder said. “I am removing you from your position as Lord Marshal of Antea.”
“Y-yes, my lord. As you wish it.”
“Yes,” Geder said. “As I wish it. Lord Daskellin? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”
“No, my lord.” It was true.
“My lord Flor? Are you?”
“No.” True.
“Lord Emming? Are you involved in a conspiracy against me?”
“I am not.” True.
Geder cracked his knuckles.
“My lords, I hereby name Lord Ternigan traitor against the Severed Throne and against my person as Lord Regent.”
“No!” Ternigan cried. “You have been misled, Lord Palliako! This is a conspiracy against me!”
“Guards, please escort the traitor outside.”
Ternigan struggled, but he had no weapons and no one to take his side. The guardsmen hauled him roughly out of the tent and sent him sprawling in the mud outside. Geder walked after him, the warmth of certainty and fury making him twice his height. His fists clenched and unclenched. The others came out behind him, one by one, until everyone from the tent stood in a rough circle. The guards hauled Ternigan to his knees.
“I demand a trial,” Ternigan said through a mouthful of mud. “I demand trial by combat. God knows I am innocent.”
“No,” Geder said. “He doesn’t. Captain. Your men should draw blades now.”
The captain gave the order, and the sound of a dozen swords clearing their sheaths filled the air. The sunlight glimmered on bare metal.
“This,” Ternigan said. “This is an injustice.”
“No. It isn’t,” Geder said. And then, “So. Who’s the buffoon now?”
Ternigan died quickly, the last of his blood spilling into the muck outside his tent. Geder watched him die with a sense of growing satisfaction. He wasn’t going to vomit this time. He was going to maintain his dignity. All around him, Lord Ternigan’s men stood slack-jawed and shocked. The wind made a soft whuffling sound like the noise of sails on a ship.
Canl Daskellin was the first to speak.
“There will need to be a new Lord Marshal. And quickly. The men are going to be disheartened by … by Lord Ternigan’s duplicity.”
“He was corrupted,” Basrahip said. “Turned against you, Prince Geder.”
“The Timzinae,” Geder said. “It’s their desperation.”
“As you say, Prince Geder,” Basrahip said mournfully.
“If you would like,” Daskellin said, “I can draw up a list of men who would make good generals for the kingdom, and we can—”
“No,” Geder said, rounding on him. “No. I am done with giving power over to generals and counselors and great men. Do you see what’s happened when I’ve done that? They turn. They all turn. I don’t want any more generals.”
His chest was working like a bellows, and his face felt hot even in the winter wind. Canl Daskellin nodded as if what he’d said made perfect sense, then paused and held out his open hand, the palm up like he was offering something.
“What do you want?” he asked, and his voice was gentle, calm, and polite. To judge from it, they might have been sitting leather couches in the Fraternity of the Great Bear rather than standing over the corpse of the Lord Marshal in the mud of a half-conquered battlefield. “If not generals to lead the armies or counselors, then who do you want?”
A friend, Geder thought. I want a friend.
Are you certain you won’t come with us?” Daskellin asked. “There is still time to catch up with the hunt if we join them at Masonhalm.”
“No,” Geder said. “You go on ahead. I’ll join you before the hunt’s over. Only not yet.”
Night made the gates of Kiaria more foreboding. The few fires that guttered in the camps seemed small in the face of the mountain that loomed above them, and the sky that rose above that. A half moon spilled its milky light over the valley. Dragons had been here once. Had fought here. Had built a massive fortress against each other that now the last remnant of their race had fled to. It made sense if the Timzinae truly weren’t humans that they would fall back to the old defenses, the old strategies. It was the size of the thing that overwhelmed him. The war between the goddess and the dragons stretched back farther than history, and now he was supposed to end it. He was surrounded by false friends and duplicity, conspiracy and violence, and he was the one who was going to lead the world to peace? It seemed impossible.