Allegiance, page 29
part #3 of River of Souls Series
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane strôm…”
Magic streamed around them, bringing with it the scents of crushed green grass and the electric scent of lightning.
“Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc, ane wahrheit unde weisheit…”
The magic wrapped her in warmth, it soothed her nerves, and yet, she felt awake and alive as never before.
Speak the truth.
I will.
Then tell us. Did Lord Raul Kosenmark betray Veraene?
No.
Did he betray the king?
No. And because she had the compulsion to speak the truth, she added, Not as I see it.
Explain.
She needed no time to consider her answer. She knew what to say, as she had since Raul first spoke to her about the shadow court and its concerns.
He loves Veraene. He loves the kingdom. He would do nothing against the king, unless the king himself acted against the kingdom. Dedrick knew that. He tried to tell Lord Khandarr, but he died because—
Markus Khandarr interrupted in a harsh, almost unintelligible voice. Ilse found her voice stopped entirely, as though he had covered her mouth with a hand of magic. Fass spoke earnestly, urgently, to the king. His voice was muffled and she could not make out what he said. Armand made an impatient gesture. At once, the quality of the air altered subtly and the sense of being smothered vanished. The king nodded to Fass, who continued the questioning.
Never mind Lord Dedrick. What about Lord Kosenmark?
He wants peace.
Just peace? Nothing more?
Peace, she repeated.
What about the crown?
Ilse scowled. She didn’t want to, but the magic controlled her features as well as her words. Very well. She wanted the truth. If that meant a frown, she would not resist. Meanwhile, the king and Emil Fass waited for an explanation.
He does not want it, she said. He wants a king to rule Veraene in truth. But kingship is not the same as war. Yes, Baerne defended us. He was a great man. But there is more than a single path to greatness. Give us peace, your Majesty. Peace throughout the continent. Surely that is a legacy worth having. Read the letter, your Majesty. Look to the future and not the dead past.
She was weeping, for Armand and the kingdom, for yet another life spent in the quest for a greater cause. No one would listen to her. Leos had not. Nor would this young king. After a few more questions, Armand flicked his hand toward Fass, who bent over Ilse and whispered the words to free her from his spell.
Magic trickled from her blood and bones. She sank to her knees before the dais. Whatever dignity she had once possessed had deserted her entirely. She didn’t care. Fass spoke again. Warmth rippled through her blood, enough to take away the lassitude.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not do better than those others.”
“You are better,” she whispered back. “You did what I asked. Thank you.”
* * *
A CONFUSING PASSAGE followed. Numerous retainers in the duke’s colors escorted Ilse from the grand audience chamber. She tried to catch another glimpse of Raul Kosenmark, but they hurried her away so quickly, she saw no more than a dark dull blur that might have been his prison uniform. Only when Heloïse whispered to her that she could visit Lord Kosenmark the next morning, did she stop struggling and allow the retainers to lift her into a chair and carry her rapidly through the palace to Duke Kosenmark’s apartments.
Heloïse said much more that she had difficulty taking in, but which comforted her later. She assured Ilse that Benno Iani and Josef Mann were safe. She herself would be safe as well, housed in rooms close to their own suite and guarded by their own people—at least until the king decided otherwise, she admitted. Until then, their father would argue for her and his son.
In the midst of these explanations, Marte arrived with a tray with refreshments, and together, the sisters fed Ilse plain toasted bread and tea. They were kind, kind and gentle as Ilse had not expected from such dangerous women. “I told him the truth,” she said over and over. “I do not know if it’s enough.”
They glanced at each other. One of them, Ilse could not remember which, nodded. “No more secrets. No more lies.”
* * *
FAR AWAY, IN another quarter of the palace, Markus Khandarr attended a private meeting with the king. Hours had passed since Ilse Zhalina’s audience, and the bells were ringing midnight. Both had had previous and more public obligations, Armand with his other chief advisers as they discussed the contents of Miro Karasek’s letter, and Markus Khandarr, who attended that first meeting and then one of his own with various associates and allies in Duenne’s Court.
Now, he and the king met alone.
A low fire burned in a brazier, sending up little warmth but clouds of fresh incense. Armand sat in a cushioned chair, his head cradled in both hands. He had a headache. Anyone would, Khandarr thought, listening to the idiotic testimony by Kosenmark’s lover. Of course Dzavek’s minions wished to negotiate for peace. They had no jewels, nor king, nothing to prevent Veraene from taking back the province.
Nothing, except the promise of a bloody war.
So they claimed. So Kosenmark believed.
So, if he read the signs correctly, did Veraene’s king.
“She was not what I expected,” Armand said softly as he massaged his temples. “Nor her message. He was innocent of treason.”
“Not innocent. Remember what your people said.”
“They followed a ship. On your orders,” Armand said. “It led them north to Károví, yes, but we have no proof Kosenmark was on that ship, nor that he met with anyone, whether this Duke Karasek or another. Perhaps…” He released a long breath. “Perhaps we were wrong to promote this war. I know what I said before, but think of it. Peace between the kingdoms, and not just between Veraene and Károví, but all the nations of Erythandra…”
He continued in that same vein, maundering on about legacies and such, until Khandarr could not bear it any longer. He stood and lurched around the room, finally coming to rest by the half-open window. A skein of clouds obscured the quarter moon, now hanging low in the sky. From the north came a thread of breeze, colored by pine tang. It was a scent Khandarr had always associated with the palace and the doings of kings. Of influence and the exercise of absolute power. Tonight, it brought him no relief.
“Your Majesty,” he said softly.
A warning. As clear as he could make it. Would Armand recognize it?
He did not. Or he did not wish to hear it. On and on the boy went, his thoughts fixed on Ilse Zhalina’s lies, about that damned new legacy, whatever that meant. Khandarr wished he had executed the bitch in Osterling. Instead she had escaped, and stolen away that other vicious creature, the one who now claimed she was queen of Morennioù.
His legs ached. His body was ready to collapse from weariness and frustration, and an anger he had not been able to suppress since Osterling. No, longer still. Since a day twelve or thirteen years ago, when a golden-eyed boy named Raul Kosenmark had first arrived in Duenne’s Court.
“Your Majesty,” Khandarr repeated, louder than before, trying to overcome the roaring in his ears. Dimly, he understood he had lost some precious ability for caution, no doubt the fault of that encounter with the Morennioùen bitch, but all too easily the rage inside overwhelmed him. And when Armand made that same dismissive gesture, he raised his staff and brought it down upon the king’s head in a single hard blow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
KHANDARR STARED DOWN at the king.
Armand of Angersee lay sprawled at full length upon the dark blue tiles, as though someone had flung him there. His chair, a heavy object, had toppled to one side, dragging one silk-knotted rug with it. The small table with its sunburst pattern of inlay, which had stood next to the chair at Armand’s right hand, lay in broken pieces. A trickle of blood flowed outward from the king’s forehead, the only movement in this utterly still, utterly silent scene.
The destruction was greater than one blow could explain, he was certain of that. And yet I do not remember …
Time, time lost, without the excuse of magic. He could not think what that might portend. His legs trembled and the roaring in his ears grew louder. Khandarr closed his eyes and breathed steadily, stubbornly, insistently, until he had regained control of his traitorous body. He wiped the blood from his staff clean with his sleeve and stumped around the chair to where Armand lay. He adjusted his grip on the stick’s round head and painfully lowered himself to his knees. His heart shuddered with the effort. He needed another moment to recover before he could make a proper examination.
Oh. No, no, no …
Now he could see the destruction clearly. The skull cracked and crumpled into itself. Blood seeping from eyes and ears. More blood, dark and viscous, pooled beneath Armand’s cheek. Markus Khandarr reached out to touch his fingers to the king’s throat. It was not easy. He had to undo layers of robes and undershirts to uncover the bare flesh. Even then, he almost fainted from exhaustion before he found the pulse point at Armand’s throat.
To his amazement, he felt a faint throb against his fingertips.
He’s alive. Alive. I ought to heal him. I ought to—
Before he could complete the thought, the pulse faded.
No. No, my king.
Khandarr fumbled to recapture that proof that Armand lived, that he had not committed the ultimate blunder in his long quest for supremacy over the court and kingdom. His protests died even as he felt the flesh beneath his fingers stiffen and cool. It was like the moment when spirit leapt into the magical plane—except that this soul, this king, would never return as himself. Armand of Angersee had already joined the river of souls streaming from one life to the next.
My friend, my king. I would have done everything for you. To build a kingdom, an empire. To establish your name in history. If you only had listened to me one last time …
He gazed uncomprehendingly at the king’s body. Blood spattered Armand’s face, now slack and stupid in death. More blood clotted his hair. The eyes stared back at him, blank and unseeing. Khandarr almost laughed, thinking it was a fitting description of this man, who had thrust away all attempts to see clearly. It was only in those last moments that Armand turned away to see for himself.
And for that, I killed him.
Khandarr brushed his fingers over the king’s eyes. He wiped away the worst of the blood from Armand’s forehead. It had the consistency of spilled ink. It smelled much worse. An animal stink and ripe with rot.
A thrum reverberated through the chamber. A chime from the sand hour globes, followed by an echo of bells outside. One hour past midnight. He flinched, suffered a moment of panic. How long had he sat there, blind and useless, with the king dead at his feet? It took him several moments before he could remember that he and the king were alone in the king’s most private chamber, which was locked by metal and magic, not to mention the guards. Even the queen and her ladies could not enter without permission.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was safe for the moment, but not much longer. Runners with important messages might arrive. That bastard Duke Kosenmark could demand an interview with the king, even at this late hour. And tomorrow there would be an investigation, with all the consequences that implied. Oh yes, the consequences. Khandarr could imagine a mass of courtiers clamoring for a return of their many favors. Galt would be the worst. They had given him nothing of worth, the fools. Once they heard the news, they would join the throngs in accusing him.
Only if they heard the wrong news.
Yes. That was it. The king was dead. No way to disguise that. However, no one knew of the king’s death except Markus Khandarr and the gods themselves, and the gods were slow to act, as he had observed, blind Toc the slowest of all. Besides, he only needed to evade their justice for a day at the most. By then, they would be bored again and Erythandra could continue on its course to a new empire.
And a new emperor.
His breath hissed from his throat. Yes. That was one outcome. He would address that later. For now, he had to contain the panic and accusations that would surely follow the king’s death in private chambers. He must make certain the queen and her children were safe from retribution. Armand’s oldest child was a boy, five years old. Khandarr would ensure his safety. He would advise the boy, as he had advised the father. Soon he could regain his ascendancy over the throne.
Khandarr muttered a stream of Erythandran. The magic current drew close around him, lending him strength enough to haul himself upright. Standing, he braced himself with his feet and staff, drawing one rattling breath after another. His bones ached, his muscles cried out for relief. The sac of flesh between his legs hung heavy and cold. He wanted nothing more than to lie on his bed and let a girl massage him into sleep.
No. Time for that tomorrow, if then.
He drew the current around his shoulders, like a shroud. Half a dozen steps brought him to the first door. He leaned against its frame and laid his palm against the lock. The tumblers clicked, the spells unfolded at his bidding, and the door swung open. By force of will, and the ever-diminishing vigor leant to him over the years by magic, he proceeded through two more rooms until he gained the outer doors.
The guards saluted at once. Khandarr ignored them. He summoned a runner, one of the newly appointed men who served in the night watch, to fetch Maester Galt from his rooms in the visitor’s wing. No questioning there. The man wanted to earn his place in the king’s service. He ran.
To the guards, Khandarr said, “Admit no one but Galt. That is the king’s command.”
He retired to the inner room to wait. The fire in the brazier had died to ashes. Khandarr relit it, and scattered more incense into the flames. A cloud of sweet fresh perfume filled the room, but underneath Khandarr thought he detected the first ripe scent of decay. His instinct said to lay the body on its bed, to cover the staring face with a cloth. That was old teaching, from his almost-forgotten childhood, when his father died in the mines of northern Ournes, in the mountains between Veraene and Károví. Since those hungry days, Khandarr had learned patience and expediency. He had lost some of that necessary patience in the past six months, but never a hold on the latter.
Better to leave the king’s body where it lay, he decided. It would be more convincing when he told his story of intruders and assassins.
Khandarr shut the window. Taking the king’s own seat behind the desk, he busied himself writing various orders to achieve his ends. He could command the loyalty of certain officers in the guards. With the right bribes, he could remove or contain troublesome members of court and council. He needed more, however. He needed absolute control. For that he needed a first, decisive victory against his enemies.
For that, I need the blood of a king.
Just as he finished the last order, the bell rang announcing a visitor. Khandarr traversed the rooms with greater speed and energy to admit Theodr Galt. Galt had paused long enough to comb and rebraid his queue, but his air was one of fevered curiosity. At least the man showed some sense and said nothing until the doors closed and they had passed into the first of the inner chambers.
“I came as quickly as possible, my lord. You and the king wish to speak with me?”
“A matter of state. You will see.”
They had reached the doors to the innermost chamber. Khandarr ushered Galt inside. He followed and quickly locked the door once again with magic.
He knew the moment when Galt saw the king’s body. Galt hissed and whirled around. “The king…”
“Murdered. Assassinated,” Khandarr said. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with painful clarity. “Three men. They used magic and bribes. Came after I left the king. I examined the windows. Found the traces of their signatures. Duke Kosenmark hired them. He knew the king intended to execute his son.”
“Then we must call the guards,” Galt said. “We must—”
He stopped and stared wide-eyed at Khandarr.
“I believe I understand the situation,” he said slowly.
Khandarr nodded. “I told you. I want your allegiance. You agreed. Now to prove your vow. Take this message to Baron Quint. He will arrest the duke and his family. You. Lead another squad to Lord Raul Kosenmark’s cell. Execute the man. Bring his head to me. There is one thing…” He paused to recover his breath and to hold Galt’s gaze with his own. “When the council convenes, you must confess. You worked for Duke Kosenmark. You took a bribe. You found those men. Give … whatever reason you like. I will protect you. Is that enough?”
Galt’s eyes narrowed. He looked a true merchant, Khandarr thought, ready to bargain. Then came a strange light smile, almost joyous, except the mage could not picture any joy in this man, except that which caused misery for others.
“I will do it,” Galt said. “On one condition. Give me the girl.”
“Done.”
Khandarr handed over three folded papers to Galt. One was for Quint, he said. One was the formal order of execution, which Galt must present to the guards and to the prison officer on watch. The last was for Khandarr’s own steward. “He will take care of the rest.”
* * *
MUCH EARLIER, NADINE had begged off regular duty for the evening. Between Lady Heloïse and her two wicked sisters, she could not sit, never mind think of entertaining one of the guards, or those minor nobles who infested the palace. The steward in charge of the courtesans accepted her excuses more easily than expected, though to be sure, none of the nobles had sent for a woman or man the entire day. After the day’s trial session, and the evidence produced by Duke Kosenmark for his son’s innocence, they were all closeted with each other discussing politics.
Freed from her duties, Nadine collected a carafe of cold water and a bag of sausages, and settled herself in a useful niche, in a gallery overlooking Lord Markus Khandarr’s suite of rooms. She waited patiently through the hours, taking note of the mage councillor’s visitors. One captain of the evening guard. A woman in a silken jacket and trousers, with the look of the western provinces about her. A string of very anonymous men and women that Nadine immediately classified as informers.
