Chapter 29

Lady Helyn Bench reluctantly held her husband’s jacket as the man she loved slipped his arms into the sleeves. “i wish you wouldn’t,” she began again.

He turned in her arms and hugged her. “My mind is made up, my dear. I don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff. I think we must air the grievances tactfully.”

“Eryd,” she said, fear combining with exasperation, “how tactful can you be when you’re about to accuse someone of murder?”

“Indeed,” he said, and pointed to a silk scarf. “Would you help me with that, please?” She flounced to the chair and picked up the length of silk draped across it. “And not just anyone,” she continued. “The King!”

“Helyn, in case you haven’t noticed over the years, I am not a dimwit.”

“Taking witnesses won’t stop him!” she cried. “He’ll just have you all killed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Kill me and then Lord Hartley? Then I suppose he’d have to kill Lord Jownes and Lord Peaforth because they would follow in our footsteps. And then who else would be left to advise, to cajole, to administer this city? He needs us.”

“Please don’t go. Don’t do this.”

“I shall know from the way he reacts whether or not he is lying.”

“Eryd!” Helyn pleaded, just short of a screech, hating the way her husband closed his eyes in despair.

“Do you believe that the Donals are not dead? Not hacked to bits, raped, burned? Or that the massacre at Rittylworth was a misunderstanding and that the monks are in fact live and well?”

“No, Helyn,” he said, and the tone in his voice chilled her. She wished she had not resorted to sarcasm.

He was deeply angered now; she had overstepped the mark. “Please do not speak ill of the dead. I am painfully aware of the deaths of my friends the Donal family and the innocent men of Rittylworth.”

“I’m sorry, Eryd, I—”

He cut her off, too angry to hear more. “Enough, wife. The three remaining lords of Morgravia cannot disappear! Now hush your ramblings and get this scarf tied, or I shall be late.”

“What did you tell the others?” she asked, resigned, understanding there was nothing more she could do to stop her husband from walking into the dragon’s den.

“All that we know.”

“Not about Wyl Thirsk, surely?”

“No. That revelation I am keeping to myself until I can see this phenomenon with my own eyes.”

“Do you believe our guests, though?”

He nodded, slowly, reluctantly. “How could I not? Their tale is so shocking and mysterious, no one could make it up. Jeryb Donal’s son would not lie to us, Helyn. You can see it in his face that he is as petrified of this… this Myrren’s Gift, as they call it, as he is intrigued by it. We have known Crys Donal since he was a babe in arms. He is as open a man as any, I am sure. No, there is no lie there, but I can’t accept it fully yet.”

“That Wyl Thirsk walks in the body of his sister, you mean?”

“That he was the Koreldy assassin, that he was Leyen, whom you delighted in so much, that, yes, he has become his sister.”

“But it does make sense, doesn’t it, my love?” she said. “It is odd that a Grenadyne mercenary would bother to rescue his enemy’s sister from the dungeon of his benefactor.” Eryd nodded. “Then take her to safety before going to look for that Widow Ilyk person.”

“Is that the seer’s name?”

“Yes. I’m embarrassed to admit that she has done readings for me in the past.”

“It’s all nonsense, Helyn. You know that,” Eryd grumbled.

“I thought so until now,” she replied, hurrying on. “Then the Grenadyne is trapped, taken into the Razors, and instead of bargaining his way out—as presumably he could have done with that Mountain King—he risks everything to get Gueryn le Gant and Elspyth away. Does that sound like a hardened mercenary, or like Wyl Thirsk trapped inside the body of one?”

“I agree, Helyn. It’s not that I need convincing. I just—”

“So then he makes his way to Briavel to offer his protection to Queen Valentyna. Why? Well, of course, he’d saved her life once before from a potential assassination attempt and had fought to save her father’s too, losing his own life in the effort. But then King Celimus comes along and it all goes wrong. Wyl gets killed by the King’s own assassin, Leyen—”

“They called her Faryl.”

“Whatever her name was. That girl, as much as I liked her—and I guess now it was simply Wyl I was liking all over again—was not used to womanly things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the baths. Remember I told you?”

“You must have.”

“And you weren’t listening as usual,” she admonished. “She was so hesitant about going into the pavilion—that’s where we first met. She was terribly embarrassed about showing her body, and let me tell you, Eryd, no woman who looks like that is ever coy about her body. She had no idea about the soap leaves, and when I mentioned the razing of Rittylworth, her whole demeanor changed. That’s because it was Wyl, fearing for his sister.”

Eryd nodded. “I understand, Helyn. I want to believe it, but I believe what I see with my own eyes, not hearsay.”

“I know. As you say, though, it’s too chilling not to be real. I need no further convincing.”

“About what, Mother?” came a light voice, and the Benchs’ daughter, Georgyana, slipped into the room.

“Were you listening?” her father asked, anxious that his young, fanciful daughter had heard more than he wished.

“No. But I wouldn’t tell you if I had,” she answered, and pulled a face at him, at the same time taking his hand and squeezing it. That father and daughter worshiped each other was obvious. Helyn sometimes wondered how they ever found room for her in their lives. “Did you meet our guests, darling?” she said.

“No,” Georgyana said, shaking her long golden curls.

“We have visitors downstairs,” her father said. “I suppose you came in through the back like a servant?”

“I’m hungry.” His daughter pouted. “I wanted to see what was cooking.”

“Well, come and meet them,” Helyn said, glad of Georgyana’s noise and distraction.

“Do I have to?”

“You’ll like them,” she assured.

“Who are they?”

“The Duke of Felrawthy and a lovely girl called Elspyth, from the north.”

“Oh, another stuffy old man like father?” Georgyana said, winking toward Eryd.

“Far from it, my love,” Helyn replied. “Crys Donal is one of the best-looking men in Morgravia, and soon to be the most eligible when word gets around of his new status.”

“Ooh! What are we waiting for, Mother?” her daughter squealed. “Off you go, Father. Bring me back something small and sparkly.”

Eryd rolled his eyes with exasperation. “I am hoping for an audience with the King, Georgyana.”

“Well, steal me something from the palace, then.” His daughter giggled as she left the chamber.

Helyn gave her husband a searching glance. “My love, please—”

“Don’t say it,” he warned gently. “You know I will be.”

She said nothing and left, fearful of letting herself down with tears.

Knave was amazed at Fynch’s recovery. His surprise drew a grin from the boy. “Truly, I am well,” he said, stretching. “I’m even hungry.”

No headache?

“All gone…for now.”

How can this be?

“The King came.”

The Dragon King? Again! He was here?

The boy nodded. “He came to me in my dreams. I flew with him, Knave. He carried me to the Wild.” You were here all the time, Knave said quietly. I noticed you were restless in your sleep, though. I feared it was pain… death.

Again the boy smiled, gently and without smugness, but Knave noticed something new in his expression.

Some knowledge, perhaps.

I don’t mean to pry, Fynch, but you appear miraculously well.

“I am,” Fynch said, laughing. He stood. “And I don’t need sharvan either. He healed me.” The King did?

“Yes. He said he would restore me so I can fulfill my task.” Suddenly Knave could not look at him; he understood the way of things. But nothing comes without a price, am I right? he asked, sadness in his voice.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Fynch replied softly. “I am at peace, my friend. The King shared something with me that has made me happy. Happier than I have ever felt before.” And this sharing was a secret?

The boy nodded.

I understand, Fynch. I’m glad you feel so well. I hated to watch you suffer.

“I know. You are a better friend than any I could wish for,” Fynch said, hugging the large dog. “Now,” he continued brightly, “I must eat something and then we must go. I am strong now, Knave, and ready to face our enemy.”

Knave said nothing. When he first clapped eyes on the small gong boy in Stoneheart, he had not anticipated that he would lose his heart to him in friendship. He had never guessed he would come to resent the burden placed upon his shoulders by the Thicket.

It was as though Fynch read his thoughts. “If we don’t destroy him, Knave, he will destroy the world we love and the Thicket. The magical creatures will die and the Dragon King will be exposed. We have no choice.”

Knave did not respond but Fynch sensed the resolve in the dog and knew that his words had reminded his companion of their duty.

Eat, Knave finally said. We have a journey to finish.

The Duke of Felrawthy was getting on famously with the unashamedly flirtatious Georgyana Bench. From the moment they had touched hands, the young woman curtsying to the Duke, Elspyth realized Crys might never stare at her in that sad-eyed, wistful way again.

She was surprised how it hurt, tried to shake it off as simply feeling clingy about the person who had rescued her from death, but she knew deep down it was all about her longing for love. She did not want Crys Donal—of this she was sure, for she loved only one person—but she would be lying if she did not admit to enjoying the Duke’s attention.

It was embarrassing when Lady Bench dropped in on her private thoughts. “Forgive my daughter, my dear.”

Elspyth reddened and smiled awkwardly. “Not at all, Lady Bench.”

“Oh, do call me Helyn,” the woman insisted, touching Elspyth’s arm as they sat together, withdrawn from the animatedly chatting pair.

“Thank you, Helyn,” Elspyth said. “Crys and I are great friends. I think terror and fear bring people painfully close, and we have shared much, not the least of which was learning of his family’s deaths. But our relationship is platonic, I assure you.”

“You have been very strong for him, Elspyth. Don’t underestimate how he might feel.” Again Elspyth smiled, sadly this time. “He’s made that perfectly clear, actually,” she said. “But I love another, Helyn, and I really must make tracks soon to return to him. I’m glad, truly, that Crys and Georgyana are getting on so well. He needs a reason to smile and a woman who will enjoy him.” Lady Bench lifted her eyebrows. “I know I shouldn’t speculate so soon, but it’s true that they would make a marvelous match. Eryd would be delighted to join our family with the Donals.”

“Where is Lord Bench?” Elspyth frowned, not really wanting to discuss a potential love match between Crys and Georgyana.

Helyn Bench grew serious and looked away from her laughing daughter and into Elspyth’s soft eyes.

“He’s gone to the King.”

“What?” Elspyth started to rise, alarmed.

“No, wait,” Lady Bench soothed. “You need to understand.”

“Lady Bench, he is sworn to secrecy about Wyl Thirsk!”

“And that secret will be kept, my dear. Have no fear, we are not about to start broadcasting news of magic in this city. We only stopped burning suspected witches less than a decade ago, as you would know.”

“So what will Lord Bench say to Celimus?”

Helyn Bench’s face darkened. “I believe he intends to confront the King—in his wonderfully articulate and polite way—about the Donal family and no doubt Rittylworth.” She put a hand in the air to stop Elspyth’s oncoming tirade, then noted the fear in Elspyth’s face. It reflected her own anguish, although she hoped she was disguising it well enough.

Elspyth glanced toward Crys, who was clearly entranced by the vivaciously pretty girl who had engaged him in such lively conversation. She returned her gaze to Lady Bench. “I think his action is unwise, Helyn.”

Her carefully chosen words sent a chill through her companion; they echoed her own anxiety. She began to weep, no longer able to hide her worries.

“Oh, Helyn, please don’t. Can we reach him?”

The older woman shook her head. “And he is adamant anyway. He would not listen to me earlier when I begged him not to do this.”

“What is his reasoning?”

“He believes in sovereignty, Elspyth. He desperately wants our king to act like the true Crown of Morgravia, to behave with care and compassion and to listen to wise counsel from his own lords.”

“Eryd has listened to our horrific story and still believes he can change this cruel King into a compassionate ruler?” Elspyth asked, shocked.

“He believes we must follow the rules of our kingdom. Talk before action. No accusations before all information is sought and gathered. He does not intend to ruffle feathers, Elspyth. Eryd will be careful.”

“Listen to me,” Elspyth said, enunciating carefully as if talking to a dimwit. She did not mean to act condescending; she was frightened. Petrified, in fact. She knew Crys had noticed her distraught body language when he excused himself from Georgyana and crossed the room. “Helyn, Eryd is in grave peril.

His life is at stake. So is yours and that of your daughter. The moment he raises this topic with the King, he will broadcast how much we know and the King will instantly see him for the danger he has unintentionally become.”

Helyn was weeping again. “I feared as much.”

“Elspyth? What has happened?” Crys asked. She told him briefly and watched him pale. “The King killed my father on a simple suspicion and then had the rest of the family executed just for good measure,” he said. “Lady Helyn, forgive me, but Lord Bench has signed his own death warrant. We have to get you out of here. Immediately. I’ll ready transport. Pack only essentials, and warm clothes. We’re going north.”

Helyn Bench, trembling, reached toward her daughter. Georgyana, however, began to protest. “This is preposterous. I have engagements and—”

“Be quiet, Georgyana, and do as you’re told!” Elspyth admonished. “We’re trying to save your life.” Suddenly she could no longer feel the pain of her recent injuries. Fear had taken it away.

Crys tried a different tack. “Georgyana,” he said, amazed at how his stomach flipped when she turned those huge eyes on him, “I could not live with myself if anything should happen to you.” His expression pleaded with her to follow them without further protest.

Clearly she saw something else in that expression, something Crys thought he had disguised. “Oh? Could you not, Lord Donal?” she replied, and her smile said it all.

Eryd Bench and his colleague sat in a small waiting chamber at the foot of Stoneheart’s war tower. Eryd had no idea why they had been escorted here, but Chancellor Jessom emerged just as he began to privately question the logic behind this curious venue.

“Lord Bench, Lord Hartley, it’s good to see you on this mild eve. Are you both well?” The visitors made all the right noises and Jessom continued: “My apologies to have kept you waiting. The King, as you can see, is working from his war room tonight—I hope you don’t mind meeting with him here?” Eryd was slightly less anxious for Jessom’s warm greeting. “Not at all. I am grateful he could see us at such short notice.” He looked toward Hartley, who simply nodded in agreement. Lord Hartley had offered to come along as support when Eryd had confided his reservations about the truth of the slaughters at Felrawthy and Rittylworth.

Jessom smiled benignly. It was not an expression that came easily to him, particularly in the light of the situation. Two lords asking for an audience at sudden notice, and Lord Bench at that—it all smacked of trouble. “Thank you, Lord Bench. As you know, his majesty has only just returned from the north. I’m sure he will be pleased to tell you more when you see him.”

“I look forward to it, Jessom,” Eryd replied. “I heard he was at Tenterdyn?”

“That’s right,” Jessom said carefully.

“And rumor has it a meeting of Kings took place there.”

The Chancellor attempted another smile. “No smoke without fire, Lord Bench. Perhaps you might inquire of the King for more information. I am a simple chancellor.”

“Nothing simple about you, Jessom,” Eryd said, deliberately softening his voice to avoid giving offense.

Jessom did not respond; he simply bowed to the two lords. “Not long now, gentlemen.” He exited the room, to return several minutes later. “Lord Bench, King Celimus will see you now, alone.” Eryd looked toward Hartley, who stared stonily back. “Go ahead, Eryd. You speak for all of us,” he encouraged.

“This is unusual. We are both here for an audience with his majesty,” Eryd tried to explain, but the thin Chancellor shrugged.

“My apologies, Lord Bench. The King requests your presence only.” Eryd nodded. Too late now for anything but compliance. He would just have to be especially careful with the slippery sovereign.

“Will you wait?” he asked Hartley, who nodded. “Thank you, Chancellor,” he said, gesturing for Jessom to lead the way. At least with Lord Hartley in attendance, he had someone to vouch for his arrival and presence, even if the other man could not bear actual witness to his meeting with the King.

He followed Jessom, filled with intensifying trepidation as his wife’s cautions rang in his ears. Perhaps this had not been such a good idea after all. Perhaps Hartley had not been the right person to accompany him. He was an unmarried man, his only son dead of the fever some years back.

Which had been precisely the King’s thinking when he heard of the arrival of the two lords. “Separate them and take Hartley down to the dungeon,” he had ordered.

“But, sire,” Jessom had said, startled. “Could we not wait and see what it is they wish to discuss with you?”

“We know what they’re here about, Chancellor!” the King had said, voice rising. “They’re here because they don’t believe that the noble family of Felrawthy was slaughtered by Razor warriors. They suspect this because word has gotten around that I was meeting with the Barbarian King. It’s not hard to follow their thought patterns, Jessom.”

“No, sire. But the dungeon is a fairly radical step for someone of Lord Hartley’s status.”

“So is death, Chancellor. Be careful I don’t ask you to kill him for me.” At which point Jessom had kept his thoughts to himself. Experience told him it was the same old argument, one he would never win. Expecting the King of Morgravia to show restraint was a waste of energy. He was a power unto himself, not caring for any advice. In fact, if Jessom was truthful with himself, he was well past the point of believing there was a prosperous future to be shaped under Celimus. His personal dreams of becoming a kingmaker had been cracked by Rittylworth’s shame, shattered by Felrawthy’s calamity, and, he suspected, were now well on the way to dust, for he did not expect to see Lord Eryd Bench live out the night. Not if Bench was here to question the King’s actions and motives, no matter how elegantly couched those accusations might be.

The fragile treaty with Cailech would also be broken soon enough, Jessom suspected, and was saddened by it. The Mountain King had shown tremendous courage and foresight in his actions and the Chancellor rather admired his man Farrow for brokering the meeting. The mercenary had been under intense pressure—especially with that business about Ylena Thirsk—but still he had shown himself to possess a cool head even within the eye of a storm. These men could be valuable to Morgravia and yet Celimus was systematically destroying any chances of retaining their loyalty. How much longer would the nobility put up with his ways? Not long, Jessom suspected, and he was not about to be the King’s scapegoat.

Their only chance, in truth, was Queen Valentyna. The marriage presented opportunities, and not just in deflecting attention from Celimus’s ugly deeds. Valentyna was bringing something positive and shiny bright into the lives of Morgravians. The people were looking forward to a dazzling queen and the pomp and ceremony of a formal wedding. Valentyna’s beauty and composure, not to mention her personal power and wealth, were the sparkle that had long been missing in Pearlis—not forgetting the promise of heirs. She was the ideal diversion from all the death and destruction. These would not go away, of course, but they would be put aside for a while—perhaps long enough to lose some of their potency, by which time Valentyna of Briavel would have worked her own magic simply through her presence. With the people’s hearts won, no one—not even the lords—would want to upset the balance between the two realms with difficult questions. Sleeping dogs would be left to lie, as they say, Jessom thought as he guided Lord Bench up the tower stairs. He could hear the old man puffing behind him.

His mind turned again to Valentyna and he had a sudden sharp thought. Perhaps his own loyalties should be aligned with the Queen. She was intelligent and wanted peace and prosperity for her nation; that meant she was open to advice and still young enough to be malleable. Perhaps it was to Valentyna he should dedicate himself; he could be not a kingmaker but an empire maker.

Jessom arrived at the King’s chamber feeling far more lighthearted than he’d felt when he began the climb. He looked behind him.

“All right, Lord Bench?”

“Yes,” the man wheezed. “I had forgotten the tower was so tall.”

“It is deceptive,” Jessom answered, tapping on the heavy timber door.

“Come!” the King called.

Jessom swung the door open and announced the visitor.

“Eryd,” Celimus said, beaming from behind the desk. “I imagine you are Familiar with this chamber, eh?” The voice was so friendly that Lord Bench felt himself relax momentarily. “Yes, my lord. Your father spent much time here briefing us in years gone.”

The smile remained fixed on the King’s face, bright, dazzling, and, Eryd suddenly realized, predatory. It was the first time he had seen right through to the heart of the young man. He had always considered him supremely clever and quick-witted and felt these were qualities that would serve him well as King. He had heard troubling stories from years ago, when Celimus was something of a hell-raiser, but had put them down to youth and riches. Like most of the nobility, he had hoped that despite the cool relationship between Magnus and his son, Celimus would shine as King if the right people were around him. He himself had always intended to be a pillar of support and wise counsel for this new King.

But too many of the lords were muttering that, for all their advice, the King was making his own decisions without reference to the council. He did not even show the courtesy of informing some of the most senior people of his plans. The proposed war with Briavel had come out of nowhere and had escalated so fast it had ignited a private war of its own, with many of the senior officials—such as Lord Hartley—quietly declaring that permitting the King to continue in this way was too dangerous. Such treacherous talk, even in private, was seriously disturbing. Civil unrest was the last thing the realm needed.

“Are you all right?” the King inquired, and Eryd snapped to attention.

“Yes, your majesty. My apologies. I think I was taken aback there momentarily by memories.”

“But we have a new sovereign on the throne now, Lord Bench,” Celimus admonished, and although his manner was genial, there was bite in the sparkling tone. “I know I can count on your loyalty.” Eryd coughed. “Of course, your majesty.”

“Which is why,” Celimus continued, “I am glad you came this evening. Where is your lovely family, by the way?”

Eryd glanced at the Chancellor, who was handing him a glass of wine. Jessom’s expression was blank, giving no clue as to why the King would ask such a curious question.

“Er…at home, sire. Why?” Eryd sipped, recognizing a superb southern red, fruity and earthy, with hints of juniper and blackberries. Normally he would relish the opportunity to share such a fine drop, but the King’s carefully couched question turned the wine instantly sour on his tongue.

“Oh, no reason. I just thought it would be lovely to see your charming Georgyana again. It would have been a pleasure to have you all here,” Celimus replied evenly.

The answer arrived as smooth as silk, but as sugary sweet as it sounded, Eryd was not fooled. He felt suddenly drymouthed and the ball of fear in his stomach, which just moments ago had been almost negligible, suddenly grew exponentially. Unless Eryd was mistaken, the King had just made a supremely well-disguised threat. Eryd sipped again from the glass, a bigger, more nervous gulp, but could hardly bring himself to swallow. His throat suddenly felt as though it were closing up.

“To your good health,” Celimus said, and raised his cup. Lord Bench was paying scant attention. His thoughts had fled to Helyn and Georgyana.

“Tell me why you came,” Celimus said, suddenly turning to business.

Eryd was feeling light-headed. He thought it was anxiety, but he noticed how warm the room had become even though there was no fire burning. He tugged at his collar to loosen it. “I wished to talk to you about Felrawthy, your majesty.”

He saw the King glance toward his chancellor and the subsequent twitch of a smug smile was not lost on Eryd. So the King had expected him. Had anticipated this meeting. They were lost.

“Oh yes? What can I tell you, Lord Bench?”

Eryd was feeling worse by the moment. His vision was blurred and his thoughts were swimming. He forced himself to stay focused. “I heard a rumor, your majesty, that you have signed a treaty with the Mountain King.” He was sure he was slurring his words.

“That’s right, Eryd, I did. We are now peaceful neighbors. I had hoped to make this announcement at my wedding, as the icing on the cake, you could say.” Celimus laughed softly at his own jest. “But it seems my learned lords are well ahead of my news.”

Eryd drew a shaking hand across his forehead. “Forgive me, your majesty, I suddenly feel very unwell.” He heard the King tsk-tsk comfortingly. “Oh, dear. Some more wine perhaps?”

“No, no, thank you,” Eryd said, pulling his goblet away from Jessom, who was suddenly at his side. “I think I should go, your highness. Perhaps we could continue this talk when I am feeling better.

Tomorrow?”

“Sit back, Eryd, and listen,” the King said. It was said in a friendly manner but was clearly an order. Lord Bench obeyed, hearing a soft ringing in his ears.

“I think you came here this evening to see if you could shed some light on the slaughter at Tenterdyn.

Would I be right?”

As if no longer in control of his body, Eryd nodded his head. The movement felt painfully slow. He could hear the King’s voice, but it came to him as though he were deep inside a well, echoing around his mind.

“Good. And I believe you might have heard something along the lines that I ordered the killing of the Donal family? I think I’m right in presuming it might be Crys Donal who told you?” Celimus said, still friendly and speaking softly.

Again against his wishes, Eryd nodded, as if compelled to give the King what he wanted.

Celimus smiled. “Thank you, Eryd, for your honesty. I’m afraid I can confirm that I did give that order, and I regret that my men missed the Donal heir, who, I assume, is now running around Briavel causing trouble and sending people like you these treacherous messages.” Eryd frowned. Had he heard right? “Is this not making sense, Lord Bench?” the King asked gently. “I suspect you are wondering now about Lord Hartley, or perhaps about those closer to your heart…your wife and your beautiful child? I would forgive you for not paying any further attention to me, for you have good reason to be worried about your family.”

Eryd tried to stand, but found himself paralyzed.

“My apologies, sir,” Celimus continued, as nonchalantly as if he were discussing the weather. “I took the precaution of poisoning your wine. Won’t be long now. I think I’m right, aren’t I, Jessom, in that Lord Bench would be experiencing some sort of paralysis now?”

Eryd could not turn to watch the Chancellor’s nod. If he had, he would have seen the disgusted expression on Jessom’s face, and known that the man had murdered one of the most powerful men in the realm tonight only under threat of his own death. He heard Jessom’s whisper, though, as the Chancellor removed the goblet from his catatonic grip. “Forgive me, Lord Bench,” he said, and then was gone, stepping aside to reveal the heinously grinning face of the King of Morgravia.

“You are dying, Eryd, in case you hadn’t quite grasped it. We shall say it was your heart. I will ensure a proper ceremony for your funeral, you can count on it, and all your noble friends will come and pay their respects. I’m afraid I can’t promise the same for your women, although I will make you an oath that they won’t suffer, how’s that? Pretty Georgyana, such a shame.” Eryd began to growl unintelligibly, the only voice left to him now. His vision had turned dark, and although he could hear, he no longer listened. The cruel words were too painful. He felt his chest constricting and his heart seemed fit to burst from the little space it had left. He tried again to move, but it was useless.

His last coherent thought was that the King had gotten it wrong; for all his smug satisfaction, he had no idea that Crys Donal had returned to Morgravia and was in fact already in Pearlis. Perhaps, Eryd thought as his breathing came in shallow gasps, the young Duke had already taken the Bench women and escaped, for he would surely not have liked the news of this visit to the King. Please don’t let Georgyana die, he prayed as the paralysis took him and he gurgled a final heaving gasp. He died, eyes wide open, saliva dribbling down the dark robes he favored.

“Check him,” Celimus ordered.

Jessom obliged in silence, seeking a pulse at the neck. He shook his head. “Dead.”

“Good. That is a most effective weapon, Jessom. I might ask you to use it again sometime. I gather you didn’t enjoy that death.” Jessom did not reply and the King did not care. “You’ve already sent the men?”

“They left for the Bench household not long after the two lords’ arrival, sire.”

“Hartley knows too much.”

Jessom knew it was wasted breath to try to convince the King not to kill again tonight. “I shall see to it, your majesty.”

“Arrange for him to be dealt with by men you trust, Chancellor. I want no wagging tongues.”

“May I ask, your majesty, how we are going to explain the disappearances of Lord Bench and Lord Hartley?” Jessom risked.

“That is what I pay you for, Chancellor. Don’t trouble me with details. Be gone.” Jessom turned, and as he did, so did something inside him.