The King's Blood (16 page)

What had been a shared moment was private now, and always would be. Even if he were to tell the story, it would be a tale told and not the thing itself. The difference between those two was the division between life and death: a lived moment and one entombed.

Simeon had been so young then. So noble and strong. And still, somehow, he had looked up to Dawson. There is nothing in a young man’s world sweeter than being admired by the boy you admire. And then, inevitably, that love had ended, and now even the dream of its recapture was gone. One dead, the other standing with the veil shifting around his nose while a priest a decade older than the corpse being consecrated mumbled and lifted hands toward God. The king’s breath was stopped. His blood turned black and solid in his veins. His heart, once capable of love and fear, was now a stone.

The priest lit the great lantern, and the bells rang out first one, and then a dozen, and then thousands. The brass mouths announced what everyone already knew.
All men die
, Simeon said in his memory.
Even kings.
Dawson stepped forward. Etiquette dictated which of the pale-fleshed ash poles he was to take, who he was to carry before, and who behind. He was not so near the front as he wished. But he was close enough to see young Aster walk out to his place at the column’s head.

The boy was pale as cheese. He had accepted coronation in the ceremony immediately before the burial, as tradition demanded. Palliako had, to no one’s surprise, accepted the regency. The great men of the nation had bent their knees to the boy prince, now king. The worked silver crown perched on Aster’s head as if in real danger of sinking to his ears, but his steps were sharp and confident. He knew how to bear himself as if he were a man full-grown, even if the effect was only to more clearly show that he was a child. Geder Palliako, as protector, stood behind him looking considerably less regal than the child prince. The bells stopped together, replaced by the dry report of the funeral drum. With the rest of the hundred bearers, Dawson took his pole and lifted Simeon to his shoulders.

At the royal crypt, they laid Dawson’s childhood friend in the darkness and closed the stone doors behind him. The official mourners took their stations at the crypt’s entrance. For a month, they would live in the open, keeping a fire lit in memory of Simeon and all kings past. When that was done, the fire would be let die. As the priest read final rites, Dawson’s family came around him. Clara stood at his right, and beside her Barriath and Vicarian. Jorey stood to his left with his arm around Sabiha still fresh from her wedding gown. When the last syllable had been spoken and the last bone-dry drum sounded, the nobles of Antea turned back to their carriages.

“For what it carries, I am sorry,” a voice said. Lord Ash-ford wore the dark robes of mourning, his cheek ash-marked like the rest. “I’d heard he was an amazing man.”

“He was a man,” Dawson said. “He had faults and virtues. He was my king and my friend.”

Ashford nodded. “I am sorry.”

“Now that Palliako’s regent, you have an audience with him,” Dawson said.

“I do.”

“He’s asked me to attend.”

“I look forward to it,” Ashford said. “This has been hanging over our heads too long. Better to have a clean start now.”

There are no clean starts
, Dawson thought.
Just as there are no clean endings. Everything is built like Camnipol: one damn thing atop another atop another reaching down into the bones of the world. Even the forgotten things are back
there somewhere, shaping who and what we are now.

“Yes,” he said instead.

T

he walls here were draped with silk tapestry, the air warmed with charcoal and incense. The king’s guard stood along the walls, their faces as impassive before Geder as they had been for Simeon. Even Geder Palliako seemed nearly right for his new role. The tailors had outfitted him in a brocade of red velvet and a circlet of gold that had him looking almost dignified. If he wore it like a costume, these were early days yet. With time and experience, he would come to look natural in it.

Lord Ashford stood, his hands clasped behind him, waiting for the Lord Regent of Antea to take his seat, and Dawson wondered whether Geder knew that no one was permitted to sit until he did.

Dawson’s displeasure wasn’t that other people had been welcomed into what should have been a private audience. It was Geder’s first official act as regent. He’d proved an apt tool in Vanai, and whatever magic he’d done to expose Maas had saved at least Aster and likely the kingdom. Lord Ternigan and Lord Skestinin were both present, and rightly so. Lord Caot, Baron of Dannick. Lord Bannien of Estinford. They were more problematic, but at most they signaled an anticipated shift of the powers in the court. No, what irked Dawson was the other person Geder Palliako had chosen to include.

“Lord Kalliam,” the priest said, bowing. A season in Camnipol had done little to wipe the desert dust off the man. He still looked like a goat-herder from the depths of the Keshet, likely because it was what he was. Geder’s pet cultist looked about as much at home in the chamber as Dawson would have been slogging through a pigsty.

“Minister Basrahip,” Dawson said, neither bowing nor allowing any warmth into his voice. “I am surprised to see you here. I had thought we were addressing affairs of state.”

“It’s all right,” Geder said. “I asked him to come.”

Dawson held back his reply. There were things he would have said to his equals that he could no longer say to Geder Palliako. Instead he nodded.

“Well, then,” Geder said, fidgeting with his sleeve. “Let’s get this done. Please. Everyone. Sit down.”

Ashford waited, matching his movement to Palliako’s so that at no point was he sitting while the Lord Regent stood. Basrahip didn’t sit at all, but rather stood back against the wall, his head slightly bowed, like a boy in silent prayer. Dawson sat, slightly mollified. A foreign priest had no reason to be welcome at the meeting, but at least he was acting like a servant. The other lords of Antea ignored the priest magnificently. He might as well not have existed.

“Lord Ashford?” Geder said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “You requested this audience, and I think we all know why. Would you like to say anything?”

“Thank you, Lord Regent,” Ashford said. He took a moment to gather himself, his gaze meeting each man at the table in turn. “We are all aware of the crimes of Feldin Maas. King Lechan asked that I come to assure you all that he had no knowledge of the plot and would have been utterly opposed to it if he had known. The intentions to kill Prince Aster were and are unconscionable, and on behalf of Asteril-hold, I would ask for time to address this conspiracy ourselves.”

Ternigan cleared his throat, and Geder nodded toward him. The conversation was open now until such time as Geder closed it. Dawson wondered whether the boy understood that. Surely he had a protocol servant, but what the new regent remembered was an open question.

“There must be a real settling of blame,” Ternigan said. “Asterilhold has a long tradition of coddling its own.”

“Of course it does,” Bannien said. “What kind of king sides with foreigners against his own lords? Lechan hasn’t sat that throne so long by inviting strife in his own court.”

“If I may,” Ashford said, “he hasn’t done it by inviting invasion and war either. It’s not in the interests of Asterilhold to take the field any more than it is for Antea. This wouldn’t be a little gentleman’s skirmish on some tradable soil. You want the conspirators. Stay within your borders, and the king will deliver them to justice. But if you violate the sovereignty of Asterilhold, it changes the aspect of things.”

“Wait,” Lord Skestinin said. “You said deliver to justice. Whose justice are we talking of here?”

Ashford nodded and raised a finger.

“We cannot turn the nobility of Asterilhold over to an outside court for judgment,” he said, and the table erupted, voices riding at once, each trying to shout over the other. The only ones who remained silent were Dawson himself and Geder. Palliako’s brows were furrowed, his mouth set in an angry scowl. He wasn’t listening to the others, which was just as well as the audience was descending rapidly into bedlam.

Tell them to be quiet
, Dawson thought at the boy.
Make them see
order.

But instead, Palliako pressed his hands to the table and rested his chin on them. Dawson, disgust filling his throat, shouted.

“Are we
schoolboys
? Is this what we’ve come to? Squabbling and barking and calling names? My king isn’t cold in the crypt, and we’re descending to melee?” His voice sounded like a storm, the force of it rattling his throat. “Ashford, stop trying to sell us something. Say what terms King Lechan wants.”

“Don’t,” Geder said. He hadn’t raised his chin from the table, so when he spoke, his head bobbed slightly like a toy sailboat on a pond. “I don’t really care what the terms are. Not yet.”

“Lord Regent?” Ashford said.

Geder sat up.

“We must know terms,” Ternigan began, but Palliako shut him down with a glance.

“Lord Ashford. Was the plot against Aster known to you?”

“No,” Ashford said.

Geder’s gaze flicked away and then back. As Dawson watched, Palliako went pale and then flushed. Geder’s breath was coming faster now, like he’d been running a race. Dawson tried to see what had caused the change in his boy’s demeanor, but all he saw was the guards at their attention and the priest at his prayers.

“Was it known to King Lechan?”

“No.”

Dawson saw it this time. It was a small thing, almost invisible, but as soon as the word left Lord Ashford’s lips, the priest shook his broad head.
No.
Dawson felt the air leave him.

The Lord Regent of Antea was looking to a
foreign priest
for direction.

When Geder spoke again, his voice was ice and outrage, and Dawson barely heard it.

“You’ve just lied to me twice, Lord Ambassador. If you do it again, I’m sending your hands back to Asterilhold in their own box. Do you understand me?”

For the first time since Dawson had met the man, the ambassador from Asterilhold was dumbfounded. His mouth worked like a puppet’s but no words came out. Geder, on the other hand, had found his voice and wasn’t about to give it up.

“You’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. I’m the man who knows the truth of this. No one else stopped Maas. I did. Me.”

Ashford was licking his lips now, as if his mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“Lord Palliako…”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Geder said. “Do you think I’ll sit here and smile and shake your hand and promise peace while you try and kill my friends?”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Ashford said, battling to regain his composure, “or where you’ve heard it from.”

“You see now,
that’s
truth,” Geder said.

“But I assure you—I swear to you—Asterilhold had no designs on the young prince’s life.”

Again, the flicker of eyes, and the priest’s subtle refusal. Dawson wanted to leap to his feet but he seemed rooted in his chair. Geder seemed to calm, but his heavy-lidded eyes were dark and merciless. When he spoke, his voice was almost conversational.

“You don’t get to laugh at me.” He turned to the captain of his guards. “Take Lord Ashford into custody. I want the executioner to have his hands off by nightfall and ready to send back to Asterilhold.”

The guard’s calm façade only broke for a moment, and then he saluted. Ashford was on his feet, all etiquette forgotten.

“Are you out of your mind?” he shouted. “Who in hell do you think you are? This isn’t how this works! I’m
ambassador
.”

The guard captain put a hand on Ashford’s shoulder.

“You have to come with me now, my lord.”

“You cannot do this!” Ashford shouted. Fear fueled the words.

“I can,” Geder said.

Ashford fought, but not for long. When the door had closed behind him, the high men of Antea looked at each other. For a long time, no one spoke.

“My lords,” Geder Palliako, Lord Regent of Imperial Antea said, “we are at war.”

D

awson sat on his couch, the leather creaking under him. Jorey and Barriath were in chairs opposite him, and his favorite hunting dog whined at his knee, forcing her damp nose under his palm.

“He was right before,” Barriath said. “About Feldin Maas. He was right. He knows things. Maybe… maybe he isn’t wrong. Jorey? You served with him.”

“I did,” Jorey said, and the dread in the words was enough.

“We can’t have done this,” Dawson said. “I can’t believe we’ve done this.”

“It isn’t all us,” Barriath said. “If Palliako’s right—”

“I don’t mean the war. I don’t even mean violating the sanctity of the ambassador. The man was a disrespectful, pompous ass. I don’t mean any of that.”

“Then what, Father?” Jorey asked.

In Dawson’s memory, the huge priest’s head moved, a finger’s width one way, and then the other, as Palliako watched. There was no doubt in his mind. The priest had been telling Palliako what to do, and Geder had done it. Simeon had died, and they had given the Severed Throne to a religious zealot who wasn’t even a subject of the crown. The thought nauseated him. If he’d woken in the morning to find the seas had floated into the air and the fish flying where the birds had been, it wouldn’t have been more upsetting than this. Everything was out of joint. The proper order of the kingdom was shattered.

“We have to make this right,” he said. “We have to fix this.”

A scratch came at the door, and it opened a handspan. A frightened-looking footman leaned in.

“There’s a guest, my lords,” he said.

“I’m not receiving them,” Dawson said.

“It’s Lord Regent Palliako, my lord,” the footman said.

Dawson tried to catch his breath.

“Show… show him in.”

“Should we go?” Barriath asked.

“No,” Dawson said, though the proper answer was likely yes. He wanted his family with him.