King (9 page)

“Thank you.” If Kien thought for one instant that inciting public fervor would change his status, he’d be the first to charge into that battle. But any hope of an actual reversal must have a legal foundation. And right now, he was unable to think of a fresh argument to use in his defense. Time and distance might clear his thoughts. Even so, perhaps copies of the transcript would sway attitudes in favor of the Lantecs. Moreover, fighting to restore their good name would probably help ease his family’s grief. Already, Mother and Beka looked more cheerful just talking about their work on his behalf.

He hugged them, then reluctantly stepped back. “If I’m to reach the Siphran border by tomorrow night, then I must leave now.”

Behind them, Rade Lantec cleared his throat. When Kien turned, Father gave him a sad smile and held out a long wooden case. “I bought this last year, intending it to be yours one day. Here it is, a few decades early.”

A sword case? As Father held the case, Kien lifted its golden latch, raised the lid, and caught his breath. An Azurnite sword gleamed from within the case, its stunning, glistening blue water-patterned blade, silver hilt, and scabbard beautifully wrought with gold and discreetly etched with the name
Lantec
. Clearly
every bit as serviceable as Kien’s military sword, but more ornate. Worth a small fortune—and able to slice through ordinary swords as if they were twigs.

“Sir,” Kien mumbled, his throat constricting, “there’s no need . . .”

“You’ve more call for it now than I do,” Rade argued. “The Tracelands demanded your sword. It’ll comfort me knowing I’ve replaced a bit of what you’ve lost for my sake.”

He couldn’t argue with the tears in his father’s eyes.

Infinite? Will I see them again?

Unable to speak, Kien hugged everyone again. Outside, his destroyer, Scythe—a gleaming black monster warhorse—waited. At least this irritable, never-dull mountain of a beast would carry him through any unexpected adventures with ease. Already Scythe tossed his big black head and stamped his colossal hooves as if urging Kien to hurry.

As he gathered Scythe’s reins, Kien shuddered. Why did he suddenly feel like a wrongly condemned prisoner, going to his death?

Infinite? Why this chill? What am I facing?

Nauseated by the Infinite’s telling silence, Kien goaded Scythe south, toward the windswept coastal road, and Siphra.

 9 

S
hifting his gaze from Barth, who had crawled under a chair after a toy—which he wasn’t supposed to carry while on duty—Akabe hid his concern as a servant readied a gold pin for the royal mantle. The pin’s sharp point hovered too close to Akabe’s neck for comfort. Imagine the irony if one bumbling servant accomplished what three Atean assassination attempts had not. A lingering, blood-poisoned death by gouging a vein in the king’s neck.

Akabe braced himself, ready to strike away the pin if the man aimed it badly.

The servant jabbed the point into the crimson mantle, missing Akabe just as a rap sounded at the door. Lord Faine entered Akabe’s attiring room and bowed, his waxed gray beard a-twitch.

Safely pinned, Akabe lifted his eyebrows at his lord-counselor. “My lord. What news?”

“Majesty. How did you know I have news?”

The twitching beard. Akabe grinned. Was it unregal and rude to toy with one’s advisors? “I see it on your face. What news?”

“Good and bad, sir.”

“Bad first.”

“News from General Rol in the Tracelands. Lord Aeyrievale was condemned before their Grand Assembly. Our informants say your petition was mocked and scorned unread, though Aeyrievale
defended your good name most spiritedly in his last statement. He—”

Akabe gasped. “Last statement? Did they sentence him to death?”

Faine blinked. “Death? Why, no, sir. The Tracelands stripped Aeyrievale of his citizenship and ordered him to leave
their
country.”

Akabe grumbled while accepting a pair of riding gloves from his servant. “Faine, you near-killed me! I thought Lord Aeyrievale died because of my decisions. Anyway, his sentence is despicable enough.” Kien loved the Tracelands—was a proud Tracelander. But no longer, thanks to the impulsive, idiotic Akabe of Siphra. “I’m sorry to hear of his exile.”

“Which leads us to the good news, sir.” Faine smiled. “He’s returning to Siphra. We should expect him here within a week.”

Perfect! Akabe swallowed his cheer. “Still, this is terrible news. Lord Aeyrievale deserved better than permanent exile.”

“Indeed, sir. And Siphra deserved better than the insults pronounced against us in the Grand Assembly. We’re drafting a formal protest against the Tracelands. If they’d an ambassador in our country, we would summon him today and tell him exactly what we think of such rudeness. Such uncouth—!”

“Yes, you are correct.” Eager to cut off the brewing diatribe, Akabe asked, “Why don’t we have an ambassador from the Tracelands?”

Caught mid-rant, Faine faltered. “Eh? Why, Majesty? Er, because we’ve been too politically volatile until these past few months. Siphra is regarded as dangerous and unstable.”

Infinite, must every country in the civilized world be hostile toward Siphra? “I take it that, likewise, Siphra has no ambassador representing us in the Tracelands.”

“The Tracelands ousted him last year, sir. You’ve met him. Lord Ruestock.”

“Ah.” The polished, conniving Ruestock. “Hmm. It seems he’s been too quiet for the past five months. Find out what he’s
up to. And demand that the Tracelands allow us to replace him. Faine, let’s create a righteously indignant defense in the Grand Assembly.”

“Yes, Majesty. We’ll deal with all that today.” Faine’s waxed beard twitched again. “We believe that today you also ought to formally set the record straight concerning your ancestry. Which of the Garric clans is yours? Northern or southern?”

“Southern, but why should it make any difference? My lord, I’ve made it clear that I don’t welcome discussion of my family. You must trust me on this.”

“Yes, sir.” Faine straightened, turning overly formal. “However, it’s not idle curiosity, sir, if questions are raised among your people concerning your lineage. You need to address the legitimacy concern.”

Temper rising with the heat in his face, Akabe said, “I’ll address this topic when I’m ready to deal with it, my lord. Not now, if you please. My legitimacy should have concerned my people last spring when they tossed me onto the throne. They must be bored if they’ve nothing better to discuss than my heritage. Meanwhile, my best friend is exiled, and the Tracelands have officially turned against us, robbing Siphra of an ally. I think that’s enough for now, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Still formal, Faine bowed, allowing Akabe time to banish his fury. As they walked outside, followed by Barth and saluted by Akabe’s guards at the doorway, Faine coughed. “My wife and the other ladies will now attend the queen. Her apartments are prepared.”

The queen. Where was Caitria? Akabe glanced along the corridor and saw Naynee walking Issa among the columns. Hadn’t Caitria summoned them yet? Suspicious, Akabe tucked his gloves into his belt, beckoned Naynee, and whistled to the graceful dog. “Issa! Come here.”

Issa trotted up and he scooped the obliging creature into his arms. Avoiding her licks, Akabe told Faine, “Go ahead of me to the council chamber. I’ll be there promptly.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Faine marched off, motioning Barth to follow him. The little boy obeyed happily, still clutching his toy, a carved soldier.

“We must be quiet,” Akabe murmured to Naynee and Issa. He crept through his attiring room and opened the panel into his bedchamber.

Just as he’d suspected. Caitria lay in the huge royal bed, sound asleep. Akabe marched over to the bed and plopped Issa onto the embroidered crimson covers. “Lady, if I must be awake now and wearing these wretched prettified clothes, then you must also play your part. Get up.”

Issa evidently agreed, licking Caitria’s face until she giggled and squealed. “No!”

“Yes!” While Issa capered over the pillows and barked, Akabe dragged off the covers. “Lady Faine and the rest of your entourage will arrive soon. You must be ready to greet them. You’ll be moving into your rooms today.”

Caitria sat up, eyes wide. “What?”

One would think the news upset her. Why? Caitria said no more than ten words per day to him. Had her family instructed her to spy on him and relay all his habits to them for some Atean plot? Akabe returned her stare, hoping his gaze was cool. Even sleep-rumpled, Caitria was entirely too pretty—devastating bait for a king. “Your rooms are prepared and the ladies will arrive soon. Time to take up your duties.
Majesty
.”

He kissed her cheek, then strode off to his council meeting. Entering the council chamber, Akabe heard, “. . . as I said, the southern Garrics have only three branches to the family. One suffered . . .” Seeing him, they stopped. Akabe eyed his council members. They looked away.

At the end of the table, a pair of small booted feet dangled over the gilded arm of a chair. Barth. Why should the boy hear a quarrel? Akabe cleared his throat and pulled the gloves from his belt. “Barth, hop down and take these to my attiring room. You can either wait for me there, or run errands for the queen and her ladies.”

Barth whooped, scrambled off the chair, bowed, snatched Akabe’s gloves, and ran from the royal council chamber. If only the royal counselors would as happily do the same.

Standing in her chilly marble and gold apartments, Caitria nodded to her new attendants, Lady Faine, Lady Trillcliff, and Lady Piton. All older. And all Infinite-worshipers, she was sure. They eyed her, stern as three mothers. Caitria’s lady-mother had never been so severe. If only Mother had survived her fever . . .

Caitria exhaled, forcing herself to ignore the tightening about her throat as she concentrated on her attendants. They seemed, for all the world, to expect her to chant some wicked incantations against them. It was almost a pity she knew none.

Lady Faine, all raised eyebrows, flowing embroidered robes, and meticulously coifed hair, looked as if she’d mistakenly eaten a grubby worm. “Majesty,” she enunciated, as if certain that Caitria would fail to understand her, “we are to attend you and advise you in matters of palace etiquette. Be sure to ask us if anything is unclear, hmm?”

Smile. Never mind that the ladies Trillcliff and Piton were eyeing her as if she might taint them. Caitria could almost hear their thoughts.

Atean. Cousin to assassins. Enemy of the king and the Infinite. Not someone Siphra wanted as queen.

Hmph. Caitria must allow their words and attitudes to flow past like a stream to be skipped over. They would
not
bully her into their religion. Ever. Hadn’t Siphra nearly torn itself to pieces for the sake of religion? Furthermore, these women didn’t know her in the least.

Lady Trillcliff spoke, her voice as fluttery as her pale green veils and layered tunic. “Majesty, please follow us.” She eyed Caitria’s simple robes. “We’ve much work to do.”

Caitria forced away a scowl. Why had Akabe sent these termagants—these scolds!—to plague her? And why was she being
isolated in her own apartments? Did he actually hate her for their religious differences? This was not what she’d dreamed of after so many years of solitude. She’d dreamed of a husband who would at least speak to her kindly. Would she be cut off for her entire life?

Caitria closed her eyes for an instant, then lifted her gaze and chin. Courage. Face this with dignity. You are a Thaenfall.

Devise a plan!

In his quiet, lamplit bedchamber, Akabe lifted a silver writing stylus from a nearby tray, tapped it in the crystal ink vial, then wrote,
Commanded and signed, Akabe of Siphra
.

Would this order provide enough guards to protect the temple site and its workers? Akabe winced, remembering how close Dan Roeh, his most knowledgeable stone mason—and father of Siphra’s most renowned prophet—had come to being killed by Ison of Deerfeld.

Well-enough. He’d already relocated the Roehs to a walled residence, secured and protected by loyal guards. And his other workers would soon be as safely sheltered. . . .

A light tap and click at the door alarmed Akabe enough to reach for the dagger at his belt.

Caitria padded into his chamber, distractingly lovely, swathed in new embroidered robes, and armed with an attitude of cool defiance. As she dumped a small armload of gear onto his bed, Akabe frowned. “Lady? What’s wrong? Does the queen’s apartment have no bed?”

“It does.” Not looking at him, she picked a square of fabric from her gear, settled into a chair before the hearth, and began to polish her fingernails. “But Naynee snores.”