The Poison Throne (46 page)

Lorcan took the paper, his face tight. He snapped it open and scanned the contents. Wynter saw his face go slack, and she saw him read and reread and then once more read the entire document. His eyes lost their focus then, and he lowered the page, staring at nothing for a moment. Then he turned his gaze to Jonathon, scanning his face with renewed suspicion.

The King groaned in genuine distress and held his hand up as though to ward off an accusation. “Oh, brother…” he said, averting his eyes. “I fully deserve that look… but have some mercy on me, please. I
swear
to you, there are no demands attached. It is yours. It’s all yours,” he mumbled. “Too late, I know, but I wish you whatever joy is left of it.”

Wynter could hear the effects of liquor in Jonathon’s speech, and it made her nervous. Drunk men were always so unpredictable and strange. She straightened and slid warily from the bed, alarmed at the expression on Lorcan’s face. She stood, watching him for a moment as a confusion of emotions fought for dominance. He looked as though he might cry, as though he might scream, as though he might rear up and strike Jonathon down. His breathing was just a touch too fast, his cheeks flaring red. Finally, his eyes on the King, his jaw working, Lorcan flung his arm out, offering her the paper. The fire illuminated it briefly in his outstretched hand, Jonathon’s fluid script visible in shadow through the backlit parchment.

Wynter took it. It was, of course, her father’s licence of work. Signed and sealed, all in order. Granted, free and willingly, and for what God-known reason, she couldn’t tell. She read it, the paper trembling in her hand and she lifted her eyes to glare at Jonathon, who sat with his face averted still.

“We thank your Majesty,” she hissed, “for your kindness and generosity in granting my father his licence of work. What a pity you could not have found it in your heart to trust him with it before you drove him into the ground.”

“Does this mean, Jonathon, that you want me to leave?”

At Lorcan’s dry whisper, Wynter bared her teeth in panic and clutched her father’s shoulder.
Oh no, surely not! Surely you won’t throw him out? Not in this state? Not when I am about to abandon him into your care?

But Jonathon raised his eyes to stare at his old friend, and his face was so deeply distraught that Wynter had to blink to ensure it wasn’t a trick of the light. He shook his head inarticulately, searching Lorcan’s pale and shadowed face and finding only recrimination there.

“Friend,” he managed finally, “have I become such a monster, that you would believe that of me?”

There was no reply from Lorcan, but Wynter felt his posture soften a little, and she wondered what it was that he was thinking. For herself she could not see past the man who had so cruelly mistreated Razi, who had almost cost Christopher his life, and who had set Alberon fleeing like a fox from hounds. She looked into the soft pleading of Jonathon’s wine-flushed face and saw only self-indulgence and a childish desire for absolution.

Jonathon tilted his head, wholly concentrating on Lorcan, his voice low and despairing. “Lorcan?” he said, as if asking her father a question. “Today, Razi beat five of my men out of their senses. Not just that… but I suspect he also had three of them
killed
… they were in the forest, and have yet to be found.” Jonathon paused in disbelief, shaking his head and looking at nothing for a moment, trying to puzzle it out. “
Razi
did this,” he murmured. “My Razi.”

Lorcan was merciless. “You have always known, Jonathon, what that boy is capable of when protecting those he loves. What the hell did you expect? After you pushed him so hard?”

“But what choice had I!” cried the King, genuinely distressed “Tell me what I could have done differently, Lorcan? Tell me how it is possible to change anything, now that it’s all in motion?”

“I cannot do that, friend,” said Lorcan softly. “Because I still do not truly know what it is that you have done.”

Jonathon laughed bitterly and flung up his hands. “Other than oppress my people and ruin my beautiful boys? Other than that?” He looked Lorcan up and down, and met his eyes, his throat working. “Other than drive my good friend almost to his grave because I did not trust him to have my back?” He bit his lip, his eyes bright. He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I am sorry, brother. I have no idea how we can get through this. And I am sorry for it.”

There was a moment’s silence. Wynter felt Lorcan lean forward a little. He gazed into his old friend’s face. Wynter did not like how shallowly he was breathing. She shifted her hand from his shoulder to his back. “Perhaps,” Lorcan said hoarsely. “Perhaps it is not too late? If you forgive Alberon, if you revoke the
mortuus
…”

Jonathon sat back, ruefully shaking his head. “Lorcan, do you think I would have done all this, were I not certain of Alberon’s intentions? The boy is set against me. He plans a coup. There is no doubt of it. As we speak, he and Oliver gather representatives to their camp. They are deep in negotiations with all the rival factions that nibble the edges of this fragile kingdom.” The King looked into the fire, his eyes wide. “They will gather their allies, and, using your machine, they will attempt to wrest the kingdom from me.” He shook his head again, sighed, and closed his eyes. “I am caught. I can think of no other options. Other than to kill Alberon and destroy poor Razi by putting him in his place.”

“Using my…” Lorcan’s muscles jerked under Wynter’s hand. “They have the
machine
?” He gripped the arms of his chair, and Wynter could feel him trembling.

“Father,” she murmured. “Calm yourself…”

“
No
!” cried the King impatiently, “they do not
have
the machine. There is only one left, and it is…” he glanced at Wynter, “in my care.” He looked again at Lorcan and there was something new in his eyes now. A sulky kind of vindictiveness that put Wynter on alert.

“I used your machine to suppress the insurrection, Lorcan… Oliver was there… he was on the crew.”

Lorcan groaned and covered his face with his hands, and Wynter saw a bright moment of satisfaction flare in Jonathon’s face.

“Oh, don’t bloody worry,” he sneered. “It wasn’t in
battle
, there were no loose tongued survivors. It was just like before… an ambush. Every living man, dead in minutes.” Lorcan groaned again and rocked gently to and fro. Jonathon watched him, his face cold.

“The crew,” hissed Lorcan. “What became of the crew?”

“Besides Oliver and myself? All of them, my men…”

Lorcan raised his head to stare beseechingly at Jonathon, “Jon… Jon… did you?”

Jonathon tutted and flung his hand up, sitting back and turning his head away. “They still live. All nine of them, my personal guard. They would die rather than talk.” He knotted his jaw and glared into the fire. “But Oliver,” he snarled, “Oliver…”

Suddenly Lorcan leapt as if burned and turned his face to Wynter. He stared at her, appalled and pushed her away from him. “Out!” he hissed, “Out! You can’t be here!”

Jonathon snorted from the other side of the fire. “Oh yes,” he drawled, and Wynter and her father turned big eyes to him, both on alert at the cold disdain in his voice. “We cannot let the little Moorehawke child be tainted by any of this, can we? The Kingssons can hurl themselves on the flames for all you care. But your precious baby must stay free and blemishless.”

“Jonathon,” implored Lorcan, as he snaked his powerful arm around in front of Wynter and pushed her slowly behind his chair. “Oh, Jonathon… please. Don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Jonathon leant forward in his chair, glaring at his old friend. “Don’t
what
, Lorcan? Oliver wants to use
your
machine to expand the kingdom. He wants to produce them in their dozens!” He scanned Lorcan’s face for a reaction, and seemed gratified at the horror he saw there. “He has stolen your plans,” he continued. “He has taken hundreds and hundreds of your
ingenious
little
paper-charges
and he is promising any of the factions who join him that they can have a machine of their own!”

Jonathon thumped his chest with a fist suddenly, his voice wavering. “I’m sacrificing my boys, Lorcan. Sometimes I think I’m sacrificing my bloody
soul
in trying to prevent this from happening.” Tears began to roll down Jonathon’s cheeks, but there was no softness in his face, only rage and bitter, bitter resentment against the man who sat before him. He jabbed a finger at Lorcan, his face scarlet, his teeth bared. “You
made
this bloody thing! You bloody
made
it! Don’t sit there and tell me this isn’t your fault! Don’t you
dare
tell me that you’re not to blame!”

“But Jon…” Lorcan held his hands out, his voice imploring “You said they were
destroyed
! You promised! We threw the paper-charges in the river! You let me burn the plans – the
only
plans, or so you told me. My God, Jon! Was it all one big lie? All the things we did… the men we… just to bury this! And it was a lie? But we swore, Jon…
we swore.
This is all meant to be over.”

The King blinked at that. He looked confused. He sank back in his chair. “Well…” he mumbled, “… it’s not.”

There was a long, heavy silence. Wynter was afraid to move in case either man remembered her presence and decided to throw her from the room. Her father’s protective arm had dropped to his side, and his hands lay corpse-pale in his lap. He seemed to have lost all his energy, and slumped motionless in his chair.

Jonathon might as well have been brooding by his own fireside for all the attention he was paying either of them. He watched the fire, his hands loosely resting on the arms of the chair, his eyes distant. When he finally spoke, he was very calm and thoughtful. There was no trace of his former bitterness or contempt in his voice.

“You did an excellent job up North, Lorcan. I would have been lost without you. You kept those hounds off my back all that long while.” The King glanced at him, but his old friend did not raise his head. Jonathon turned to regard Lorcan closely, propping his cheek on his fist. “Without your machine, this bloody insurrection would have claimed more lives and resources than we could have afforded. You have saved my kingdom… again. You have been a true and loyal subject. And an invaluable friend.” Lorcan still did not raise his head. Wynter felt him breathing slow and deep under her hand, as though he were asleep. She glanced down at him. His eyes were brightly reflecting the firelight as he looked down at the toes of Jonathon’s boots. “I am sorry I doubted you,” continued the King. “I wish I had never pushed you so hard on your return. I wish…”

“Take your wishes and burn them,” growled Lorcan softly. “I have no desire to hear what you
wish
, or what you are grateful to me for, or how you feel about anything at all. I have no desire to even look upon your face. I wish only that you would leave me in peace.”

Jonathon smiled and huffed a little breath out of his nose. “Well, you have always had the luxury of the noble sentiment, old friend.” He pushed himself from the chair, steadying himself before straightening. “Whereas I?” He chuckled bitterly. “I must kill my friends and murder my principles and throw my sons on the funeral pyre of state.” He swayed a moment, then turned unsteadily for the door. “Because I…” He spread his arms in an expansive gesture as he exited. “I am the goddamned King!”

They heard him stumble into the receiving room, then the bolt drew back and he left without closing the hall door.

Lorcan stayed as he was, staring at the floor. Wynter moved to kneel at his side and he spoke without looking at her. “Go shut the door, darling.”

“Dad, I…”

“The door please, Wynter.”

His hair had fallen forward, and from this angle she couldn’t see his face. As she hesitated, Lorcan’s hands slowly tightened into fists, and Wynter sighed and went to shut the hall door.

It had grown dark, and the receiving room was lit only by the sharp rectangle of light thrown in from the hall. As Wynter crossed the room, a flash of white caught the corner of her eye and she stuttered to a halt, her heart hammering in her chest. The orange cat was sitting in the shadows, its white chest and the tips of its paws glimmering like spectre-light in the gloom. Its paws were tucked neatly together, the tip of its tail switching incessantly to and fro. It said nothing, but it dipped its neat head to one side and widened its eyes expectantly.

Well?
that look said,
I don’t have all bloody night
.

Wynter took a steadying breath and held up a hand,
hush
, she indicated,
stay there
. She closed and bolted the hall door, then crossed to return to her father’s room, glancing all the while at the cat. She paused at the retiring room door and gave the cat one more warning look.
Wait there!

The cat tutted and rolled its eyes, and grizzled softly in complaint. Wynter took that as an agreement to wait.

Lorcan had not moved. He still stared grimly at nothing, his jaw tight, his hands fisted in his lap. Wynter longed to take the tangled curtain of his hair and brush it back into its usual, neatly contained plait. Instead she went and knelt at his feet. She was horribly aware of the cat in the next room, listening, impatiently waiting.

“Dad,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

Lorcan continued to stare at the floor, and she took his hand. He was very cold and she chafed his fingers as she gazed into his face. He didn’t seem to notice.

Wynter couldn’t really understand any of this. In her opinion this machine, whatever it was, sounded to be a godsend to a kingdom. Surely anything that could hasten the end of a conflict was a good thing? As it was, battles were fought at the expense of hundreds, sometimes thousands of men’s lives. Men were battered with cannon, pierced with arrows, and hacked by swords and halberds. They were punctured by pike and lance, beaten, broken and mutilated, and left to scream and die under the trampling hooves of their horses. If her father had created something, some
weapon
, that brought all that to a rapid close… well, all to the good! Let Jonathon fashion them in the hundreds, and ring the kingdom with them! If it were up to Wynter, that is most certainly what
she
would do.