Морган Райс
Throne of Dragons
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
When the guards came to drag him to his execution, Renard knew it for what it was.
He’d seen the faces of men who wanted to kill him before, and this was like a cut down version of that, shorn of the anger, but still with the same twist of certainty to it, the same hardness that said that he wouldn’t be able to change their minds with a well-placed word or a coin.
“Well, lads,” he said, as they dragged him from his cell in manacles. “How has Lord Carrick decided to have me killed?”
They looked round at him in surprise, as if they thought he shouldn’t have been able to work out what all this was about.
“You’ll see,” one of them assured him, as they made their way up from the featureless stone and straw of the dungeon.
“Ah, something bad, is it?” Renard asked. Then, without pausing, he elbowed the man in the ribs and ran as fast as his chains would allow him. It wasn’t very fast, but it wasn’t as though he had much to lose at this point, either.
Of course, the problem with trying to run while chained was that it simply didn’t let a fellow move very fast. The same problem applied to trying to fight while chained too, although Renard did at least manage to get his chains around a guard’s neck before one of them slammed the pommel of a knife into his skull, making him see as many stars as there were in all the heavens.
They pretty much carried him up the stairs after that, which seemed only fair to Renard. A man shouldn’t have to walk to his own execution. They took him out into a courtyard, ringed by high walls that even he couldn’t climb in chains. There were peasant folk there, crammed in tight and surrounded by guards to keep them in line. Yselle was there, and Renard had the feeling that having to watch this was part of the lesson that Lord Carrick wanted them to learn. He looked over to her, but did not dare declare what he felt while he did so. That would just have seen her hurt. There was a gallows set up, of course, and on it a burly executioner stood, next to a block, axe in hand.
Lord Carrick stood above it all on a balcony, looking on with apparent indifference as the guards carried Renard up the wood of the gallows’ steps.
“Renard the thief,” he said, as Renard reached the top. “You stand before me having stolen from me. You will pay for that.”
“Beheading, my lord?” Renard shot back. “That’s hardly very original.”
“Eventually beheading,” Lord Carrick replied. “First, my man shall cut away your fingers. Then your hands. Then your feet. He will continue, until you are in sufficiently small pieces for everyone who had gold from you to have a part of you. Then, if you still breathe, you will be beheaded.”
“Ah,” Renard said.
“Do you have anything left to say for yourself?” Lord Carrick asked. “Would you like to beg for clemency? People sometimes do.”
“Does it do them any good?” Renard asked. Lord Carrick’s expression told him the answer. “Then I would simply like to say that while there are many things in my life I suppose I should regret, robbing you blind was not one of them, my lord.”
There, that sounded suitably pithy, and it did a good job of masking the raw terror running inside him too. He had to find a way of getting out of here, had to find a way clear.
Of course, he could have been clear by now if only he’d taken the Hidden up on their offer, but some things were worse even than being carved up like a side of beef. They could do things to a man that would make a horrific death seem pleasant by comparison.
Although Renard had to admit that it seemed more than bad enough right now.
An honorable man would have marched to the block. A hero would have set his hand down on it and dared the executioner to do his worst, giving the common folk something to remember this day, something to inspire them.
Since Renard was neither of those things, he fought the whole way, so that the guards had to tie him to the block with length after length of crude rope while he bit and elbowed and kneed. Eventually though, there wasn’t enough movement left in him to fight longer. There was only the executioner standing over him with that axe.
“Begin,” Lord Carrick commanded.
The executioner raised his axe. It seemed to happen impossibly slowly, and for a moment, Renard wondered if it was some trick of his mind, slowing down these last moments, giving him at least the illusion of time in which to act even if there was none.
After several seconds of it, though, he realized that the man really was moving that slowly. He ground to a halt, then his axe went clattering onto the floor as he froze in place, ringing out in a tumble of metal.
Three hooded figures stepped out from the crowd.
Renard could only watch as Void, Verdant, and Wrath stepped into place in front of Lord Carrick’s balcony. The guards did not move to stop them, although they looked between them and Lord Carrick as if trying to decide who they feared more.
Verdant stepped over to the executioner. She touched him lightly on the lips, and he gasped, seeming to regain the ability to move all in a rush. He scrambled back from her like a mouse from a cat, even though he towered over her.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Carrick boomed down from his spot on the balcony.
“My lord,” Void said, that blank mask of his staring up at Lord Carrick. “It is good to see you again, after so long. I trust that our arrangement worked out well for you?”
“Our arrangement…” Lord Carrick stood there staring down at him. For a moment, Renard thought that the man might actually be arrogant enough to try to deny it. “Yes, of course.”
“And that you have not forgotten the boon you said you would owe us,” Void continued.
In that moment, Renard knew what he was going to ask for. It seemed that Lord Carrick knew it too.
“No,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Renard. “This man is mine to kill. He has stolen from me!”
“And we have need of a thief,” Verdant said in that too honeyed voice of hers.
Wrath joined in, cracking his knuckles. “Unless you want to break your word to us? Unless you want the Hidden for an enemy?”
“I…” Lord Carrick looked from them to Renard and back. Renard could feel the hatred there. He found himself hoping that hatred would be enough for him to order some guard to put a blade in him anyway. It would probably be better than what the Hidden had planned.
“Take him,” Lord Carrick snapped, gesturing to Renard. “He is yours now, to do with as you wish. Take him and go.”
Damn it, Renard couldn’t even rely on a man like his lordship to do the stupid, cruel thing. He could only watch as Void and the others came over to him. The Hidden’s leader nodded to Verdant, who touched the ropes that held Renard.
He smelled the scent of rot that went bone deep, and deeper, the scent of blooms opening in a deep forest somewhere, already consumed with fungi. Even as he smelled it, the hemp of the ropes seemed to blacken and fall from him, crawling with maggots.
Wrath lifted him to his feet easily. He took the chains that held Renard, and he snapped them.
“I’ve already told you that I’m happy here,” Renard said to Void.
The other man’s cloaked shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “That does not matter. You have been given to us now, in law. If you try to run, we will hunt you. If you fight us, we will do things to you that will make children weep when their mothers tell them of it.”
The worst part was that there was no drama in the way he said those words. They were as cold and even as a grave slab.
“You could have come with us before,” Verdant said. “There would have been such rewards.”
“And we would not have had to call in a promise made to us,” Void said.
Renard tried to think of a good way out of this. There was none.
“If you try to fight, I will hurt you,” Wrath said.
“And I will find the one you looked at so sweetly as they dragged you out,” Verdant promised. “We’ll hurt her too.”
“You—”
Void held up a hand and the silence was like a club, stopping them all.
“Enough of this,” he said. “We have what we came for. Renard the thief, you will come with us, as you were always going to come with us.”
“You’re claiming it is fate, now?” he asked.
The Hidden’s leader made a papery sound. It took Renard a second to recognize it as a laugh.
“It is simply the will of the Hidden. We get what we want, thief. Now come; you have an item to procure for us.”
Renard went. As he did, he glanced back to Lord Carrick, wondering if it was too late to ask him to execute him anyway. It would probably be a lot quicker than everything his new companions had planned for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Vars was waiting when the army returned to Royalsport. He stood atop the castle’s battlements, looking out in fear, knowing that when his father and his brother returned, he was going to face their full wrath for what he had done. For what he had failed to do.
No, I did all I could, he insisted to himself.
Lyril was not there. Vars was surprised by that. In recent weeks, she had been by his side almost constantly, yet now she was gone. He could guess why: the rumors about him coming back alone when he was supposed to be protecting his sister had already started.
When his father got back, he would be disinherited. Vars was sure of it. Below, the city bustled, smoke coming from the chimneys, the streams currently at low tide between Royalsport’s many islands. Vars stood there until he could see the advance of the soldiers returning, the blocks of the troops moving in concert, the Knights of the Spur shining as they rode in gleaming cohorts. His fear built with every step they took closer, until Vars was sure that the best thing to do was flee, run from the castle and never come back.
He swallowed and headed down through the castle, hastening past servants who seemed to be hurriedly preparing for the return of the king, polishing floors and silver, brushing dust from tapestries and setting out food in readiness. He pushed one aside as he moved through a hall with low beams overhead, heading for his rooms.
In those, he grabbed a sack, trying to decide what he would need to take. He threw in clothes, obviously, then coins. He took silver candlesticks, reasoning that he would be able to sell them, and grabbed jewelry. If he was not here, then his father and his brother could not do anything to him.
He was still trying to decide what to take when a servant appeared in the doorway.
“What?” Vars snapped, his fear turning into anger, as it so often did.
“Your highness,” the servant said. “You need to come. Your father…”
Was this what it had come to? Had they sent servants to drag him there? Would there be knights waiting outside the door, ready to carry him away?
“One moment,” Vars said, trying to think of a way out of it. Perhaps he could still slip away.
“Your highness,” the servant said. “Your father has fallen in battle. You must come to the great hall.”
Sheer shock dropped Vars to his knees. He tumbled, not understanding.
“My lord, can I help you?” the servant asked.
Vars waved the servant off, climbing back to his feet by grabbing onto a statue of some hero Vars didn’t even know the name of. He didn’t feel very heroic right then, barely had the strength to pull himself up again. The weight of the statue held Vars in place, staring at the servant there, barely comprehending the words.
“Say that again,” he said. His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Your father,” the servant said. “He has fallen. Not dead, but he will not wake. And your brother Rodry is gone.”
That took time to sink in past the wash of fear that had been filling Vars’s mind. The meaning of it took even longer. Seconds passed in silence, emotions flaring through him one after the other, and all at once. Fear, horror… relief. It was too much, too overwhelming to consider.
His father was fallen in battle. Vars could just about comprehend that. But for Rodry to be gone too…
“I’m… I’m king?” Vars said.
“Yes, your highness,” the servant said, and then corrected himself. “A regent, at least, while your father is… unwell.”
Vars stood there, blinking, trying to wait for it to make sense. Then he pushed past the servant, all but running down in the direction of the great hall. He wound his way through the castle’s corridors, down spiral stairs and along galleries filled with the faces of dead kings. Would his father’s features be set there now? In time, would his?
Vars came to the great hall and had to shove his way inside, there were so many people there. There were nobles there, and knights, and more, the tables pushed back to the walls to make room for them, the normal demarcations of the carpets for each group forgotten in the crush. Vars had never been in a battle, but now he was starting to get a sense of what it might be like, and he was glad that he had avoided it.
“Step back!” he commanded. “Let me through.”
To his surprise, people did. They gave way to him, letting him to the front where, upon the dais that held the thrones for king and queen, his father lay upon a table set with white cloth, still in his full armor.
For a moment, Vars was certain that the servant had been mistaken, and that he was dead, yet no, it was clear that he still breathed. Vars stood over him, looking down, knowing that if he had only protected his sister better, this would not have happened. He looked out over the crowd and found Lenore there, standing with Erin’s support, their mother holding to them as she sobbed.
Vars stared out at the rest of them, seeing the eyes looking back, those of knight and noble alike. He knew what he had to do. Carefully, barely daring to do it, he moved back until he could seat himself on the throne.
“Take my father to his rooms,” he said. “Send for Physicker Jarran and have him tend to him. Queen Aethe will no doubt wish to attend on him, and Princess Lenore must be tended to as well, after all she has suffered.”
An honor guard of the Knights of the Spur came to carry his comatose father away. Servants led the queen and Lenore from the hall, too. To everyone watching, it must have seemed like an act of kindness, but Vars breathed a sigh of relief that all of those who might have challenged him in that moment were gone.
“Where are my brothers?” Vars asked. “Tell me what has happened.”
Commander Harr stepped forward. Vars had always disliked the way the man’s gaze seemed to see through him. “The news is dire, your highness. It seems that Prince Rodry died in the south. There has been no news of Prince Greave. Were he in Royalsport, I am sure he would be here.”
Vars could barely believe the idea that Rodry might be dead. He was too strong for that, too impossible to beat. Vars had been sure that no man alive could kill him. Now, just like that, he was gone.
“And the battle?” Vars said. “We beat them?”
The commander nodded. “With the bridge down, there is no more access for the southern armies.”
“It’s not that simple,” a voice called from the side. To Vars’s surprise, it was Erin who stepped forward, dressed in armor as if she’d been away playing at fighting. There was a man beside her who might have been a monk, save for the sword sheathed at his back.
“I’m sure the commander knows war better than you, sister,” Vars said.
“But he doesn’t know what my friend here knows,” Erin said, gesturing to the monk.
“And who are you?” Vars demanded of the man. He looked ragged, bloody, wounded. Hardly a man to listen to at all.
“My name… I’ve had several,” the man said. “I was known as Brother Odd for a while, of the Isle of Leveros. Before that, I was… Sir Oderick the Mad.”
Around him, the room erupted at the name. Vars could understand why. He’d heard the stories of Sir Oderick, of the slaughters, the chaos he caused. Around him, he could hear the men murmuring in fear.
“…has he returned?”
“…should have his head…”
He didn’t want to risk angering a man like that, though.
“What news do you have, Sir Oderick?” Vars asked.
“Leveros has fallen,” the other man said. “King Ravin has breached its neutrality, and is bringing his armies in from the east.”
Again, the room exploded in noise, everyone there seeming to have a demand, or a plan, or a worried exclamation all at once. Some seemed to be terrified that all their forces were to the kingdom’s south now, having been sent to the bridge. Others were disbelieving, or demanding to know what Vars would do…
It was too much. So many demands all at once were too much to think through. Perhaps his father or his brother might have stood up and shouted for silence, but Vars was terrified that no one would listen. Instead…
…instead, he did the only thing he could think of, and ran from the hall, back to an antechamber, leaning against the wall until he thought that he could breathe again.
No one followed. It helped that there were guards outside the room, but even so, he had expected the press of courtiers to be overwhelming. Vars stood there among the tapestries depicting heroes, among the finery that his house had won through strength, and he felt like a fraud.
When his half-sister’s husband-to-be walked into the room, he felt even worse. He felt sure that Finnal would have talked to Lenore and learned what Vars had done, that he would be angry. Instead, he moved over to a low marquetry table and poured himself a glass of wine from a decanter.
“Would you like one, your majesty?” Finnal asked, and offered Vars the glass. Vars took it and downed it smoothly. He had to remember that he had seen the other side of Finnal in the House of Sighs too, that he was more than just the pleasant young man his sister doted on.
“Why are you here?” Vars asked.
“To assure you of my family’s loyalty to our new king regent,” Finnal said. “My father would do it, but he has been called away to our estates.”
Vars paused for a moment, trying to make sense of it. What exactly was Finnal saying?
Finnal sighed. “King Vars, the truth is that you will need friends at a time like this. The kingdom has taken a great blow, and faces great dangers. Clearly you are the man to lead, but we must all rally around you. Especially when there are… questions about why you were not at the battle.”
“I…” Vars tried to think of something to say. Normally he was good at making up lies and excuses, but this was all too much.
“No doubt you were led in the wrong direction by Quiet Men,” Finnal said, “who knew that had you been there to protect Princess Lenore, you would have slaughtered them.”
“Yes,” Vars lied. “That’s it exactly.”
“Then this truth must be made known,” Finnal said. “For we both know how quickly vile rumors can spread. Thankfully, you have a friend in me, Vars. I will see to it that the right people hear you were a hero in this.”
“And why would you do that?” Vars asked.
Finnal smiled. “Because we’re about to be family. You are going to honor my upcoming marriage to Lenore, aren’t you? On the terms your father agreed to?”
“I…” Vars was about to protest that this wasn’t the moment to be thinking about a marriage, but the truth was that he needed the allies. Besides, what did Vars care who his half-sister was given to in marriage, or when? “Yes, of course.”
“And we’ll be married as quickly as possible?” Finnal said. “There is no sense in delaying. The kingdom needs this joining.”
“Yes,” Vars said. “Yes, you’re right.”
“That’s wonderful,” Finnal said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure that we will be such good friends.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Lenore lay in bed, unable to rest, the world around her seeming bleak and empty and dark. She tried closing her eyes, but each time she did that, it felt as though the Quiet Men were waiting for her, ready to kidnap her again, and kill those around her. They were dead, or stranded across the other side of the Slate, but that made no difference, not to this.
Her rooms were as beautiful as they had ever been, gilded and painted, every corner decorated with flowers or with embroidery, in a space that any princess should have loved. Yet now, they felt as much a prison as the room at the inn had, because Lenore didn’t dare go out to face the rest of the court.
Even thinking about the inn made her shudder. She couldn’t think about it; she wouldn’t. What else did that leave to think about, though? Was she supposed to stare at the absences where her maidservants had been, thinking about all the things that had been done to them before they’d either been murdered or sent out in a cruel kind of message to the world? Was she supposed to think about Rodry, standing there in his last moments, dying so that Lenore could escape? Or was she supposed to think about her father, lying comatose in his rooms, unmoving while her mother and the physicker stood over him?
Any one of those things would have been enough to make Lenore break down in tears before. Now, the combination of them felt like enough to push her into a space beyond tears, where the pain turned into something else, and she could do nothing but lie there, staring at the walls.
She was still staring when Finnal entered the room. He looked as splendid as ever, the golden counterpart to her, fair-skinned and handsome, graceful as a dancer in every movement. He wore a silver-worked doublet and hose, but he outshone any costume he could wear.
“You came,” Lenore said, sitting up, grateful beyond words that he was there. Finnal’s presence would make everything better. He would hold her and chase away the nightmares that kept her from sleep, he would—
“Be quiet,” Finnal said, in a surprisingly cold voice. “Your role in this conversation is to listen, not to prattle as you have spent every other conversation prattling.”
“But Finnal—” Lenore began, and the look in his eyes held such contempt that she froze, unable to speak.
“While your father was around, I had to play the part of the loving suitor,” Finnal said. “I had to be your perfect prince, and for what? A girl whose value is now greatly diminished?”
Lenore didn’t know how to react to that. “I… I am a princess of this realm!”
“One who has been captured and abused by the south,” Finnal said. “Frankly, I’m astonished that my father wants us to continue with getting married. Still, at least the link to your title is a useful one.”
“What’s wrong?” Lenore asked, not able to believe what she was hearing. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why am I saying what I think rather than simpering along like a courtier?” Finnal shot back. “Because your brother Vars is a much more practical man than your father. He will see you married to me without any foolish notions of love being involved.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought that because you were a princess, anyone they brought to you had to fall in love with you?” Finnal said. He laughed. “Stupid girl. I’ve spent more time in the House of Sighs since we met than with you.”
The rumors… Lenore had dismissed them, but now, she could see that it was all true.
“Do you… do you even like me?” Lenore asked.
“Enough to sire an heir,” Finnal said. “Enough to enjoy you, obviously. But there will be rules to our marriage. Let us be clear that your role is to provide a connection to royal blood, and that is it. You will provide me with heirs, and your presence will make me royal enough that people will listen. Beyond that, I will seek my enjoyment… elsewhere, and you will remember your place. You will be spending most of your time in our new estates, away from the world. You will not disobey me on any matter, or contradict my word. Do you understand?”
“And what happens if I refuse?” Lenore asked.
Finnal gave her a baleful look. “Your brother will give you to me in marriage regardless. Once I am your husband, I will be free to do with you as I wish. It would not be wise to anger me.”
Lenore felt a knot of fear building inside her. She had thought that she had suffered the worst the world had to offer. Now, it seemed that Finnal was worse still. He turned on his heel as if it didn’t matter what impact he’d just had on her, what damage he’d done, then left without another word.
***
Lenore wasn’t sure how much longer she lay there. She didn’t want to look at anyone, didn’t want to do anything, didn’t want to rise. She ignored food when one of the servants offered it, lay dry-eyed, wishing that she could find even tears in all this.
She was still lying there when the door opened, and a figure she had never thought to see walked in.
“Orianne?” she said.
Her former maidservant stood there, tall and elegant, her dark hair tied back. Her gown was simple now by noble standards, pale linen and lace rather than silk and velvet. She didn’t pause, but rushed over to Lenore’s side, hugging her tightly.
Lenore wept then, as she hadn’t been able to before. She wept all the tears that had been held back, for her brother, her father, her maids, herself. Orianne held onto her quietly, just there for her, until it seemed she had wept so much that she could have filled the Slate with her tears.
“How are you here?” Lenore asked. “I sent you away. I told the guards not to let you in.”
“None of that matters,” Orianne said. “I heard what happened to you, and a few guards weren’t going to keep me out.”
“But how?” Lenore asked.
Orianne shrugged. “Meredith at the House of Sighs called in some favors with those guards who had visited. I hope you don’t mind.”
Lenore thought about the way she’d reacted the time the House of Sighs’ mistress had been there. She winced at the thought.
“I… I was so horrible to you,” Lenore said. “I made you leave because you’d said the wrong thing about Finnal, but you were right about him all along.”
“I know,” Orianne said.
“He came to me a little while ago,” Lenore said. “He told me that our marriage would be a sham, that we would be married in name only, and that I would be shut away in comfort while he dealt with everything that mattered. How could I not see what he was?”
“You couldn’t see, because you were in love,” Orianne said. “Do you think I can’t forgive that?”
“I don’t know,” Lenore said. “Can you?” She thought for only another second before she said the next part, and she only thought about it because it seemed impossible that Orianne might accept. “Would you… would you consider coming back and being my maid again?”
She’d lost so much in the previous days that it seemed impossible to her that there could be any goodness coming out of it all like this.
“Of course,” Orianne said.
“Thank you,” Lenore said, hugging her again.
Orianne started to pull her to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Lenore asked.
“We’re going to get you up and make you look like a princess again,” Orianne said.
“That won’t… it won’t change anything.”
“No,” Orianne agreed, “it won’t. It won’t take away any of the hurt, or bring back the lost. But it will change the way people look at you.”
She picked out a mourning dress of dark velvet, laying it out for Lenore, then helping her into it. She brushed Lenore’s hair, helping her with her makeup and her jewels, until she stood in front of the mirror, and no trace of all the turmoil she felt inside shone through.
“You are strong,” Orianne said, “and we will show that to this would-be husband of yours.”
“He will be my husband,” Lenore said. “Vars is ruling in Father’s place, and he will give me away. It probably even suits him, having me where I can’t talk about him not being there for me.”
“Then you will be married,” Orianne said. “But there are always ways to change things, and to fight back. You will have my help at every step.”
“Thank you,” Lenore said.
“You can thank me by being the princess we all know you can be. For now though, how about we go for a walk around the castle walls? It will be good for you to be in the sunlight, and to be seen.”
Lenore wasn’t sure if she could do it, after all that had happened. Even so, Orianne’s presence seemed to lend her strength. She would do this, all of this, no matter where it led.
