Spirit of the King (11 page)

“Not interested. I’m here to find a man.”

Her smile disappears. “If’n you undercuts me, I’ll slice you.”

She bounces the knife she used to clean her nails in her hand, a lazy threat. Now it’s my turn to smile.

“Not just any man, a man named Khirro.”

She snorts a laugh through her nose. “Ain’t no heroes in Poltghasa, darlin’.”

“Not ‘hero’, ‘Khirro’, with a k.”

“Ain’t none of them here, neither.” She turns and leans with her back against the rail, her shoulder brushing mine. “If you ask nice, I might consider givin’ you more of a discount. Maybe even a freebie.” She shows her gap teeth again.

Memories of nights spent with my nose buried in perfumed hair come to me, bringing with them sadness and anger. The man called Khirro is responsible for taking it from me. Nothing matters but finding him.

“Thanks anyway,” I say and move toward the steps. “I’ll be in town. If you hear of a man called Khirro, find me.”

I feel her eyes on me as I stride down the steps and consider turning back to tell her that life doesn’t have to be this way, but I don’t. We all have to choose our own lives, for better or for worse.

“Come back and see me anytime. I’m right here every night.”

My boot has just touched the dirt at the bottom of the steps when I hear the clamor of people bursting out of the public house, the wooden door slamming against the wall.

“That’s the one, there,” a voice yells, words slurred by drink. “That’s the one what knifed Creeg.”

I turn slowly, without bothering to pull my steel yet. There are five of them leaning drunkenly on one another. One of them points at me, his face twisted into a scowl made humorous by the amount of ale he’s consumed. I can’t help but laugh at him, and my laughter serves to anger them further.

“Your man deserved what he got,” I say knowing my voice will give away the secret I hoped to hide with my cloak. If they know they’ve been slighted by a woman, perhaps it will insight them more.

I can only hope.

The first one stumbles down the stairs, falling onto my sword as I draw it. I spit on him as he slides to the ground, showing his friends I’m disappointed by the ease with which he gave up his life.

Two more come at me, blades bared, and in the wan light of the lanterns hanging on the patio, I see the rust of misuse on their swords. One lunges at me. I step aside and the hilt of my sword shatters his jaw. The woman leaning on the railing hoots and claps despite the man who’s taken up position behind her. I determine that when I’m finished with these ones, I’ll kill him, too.

The second man takes his time, stalking me like he wants me to think he knows what he’s doing. Another man has come down the stairs behind him, but the fifth is gone, disappeared back into the saloon, either scared off or gone for help. I care not either way.

The man circles behind me so he and his companion are on either side. I draw my dagger in preparation for the simultaneous attack they’d be fools not to attempt. They don’t disappoint, at least not from a strategy point of view. In terms of skill and challenge, they offer little more than their dead friends. Dodge, stroke, parry, thrust. In less than fifteen seconds, they are both lying in the dirt, their blood draining to feed the worms and I haven’t broken a sweat.

“Look out,” the woman at the railing calls.

I look toward the door and see the fifth man has returned, and he’s brought companions. Ten, perhaps more. I smile and raise my sword to the woman, thanking her for the warning; she goes back to getting fucked against the railing. I ready myself for the men and hope one amongst them isn’t too drunk, at least one who will provide me the challenge and practice I crave. They spill down the stairs and sparks fly as steel pounds against steel.

The worms will eat well tonight.

The chill wind stroked her flesh, hardening her nipples and spilling goose bumps down her arms. From the window, she saw little activity in the fortress; a few men wandered the courtyard, but the atmosphere lacked the revelry normally accompanying the end of a battle. To the Erechanians, the battle likely didn’t feel as though it had ended, and the Archon’s soldiers mistrusted them for it. No one truly felt this thing was done yet.

There was much work still to do, but she found patience difficult. Every day the power within her grew; she could use it to make things progress more quickly if she wanted but knew doing so would jeopardize everything.

A group of loud and garrulous men strode by and one of them looked toward her window. His gaze lingered upon her nakedness, his mouth fell open; he prodded his companions and pointed. They all looked up to ogle her, friendly arguments put aside. In the dark, she couldn’t tell whether they were Kanosee or Erechanian—more likely soldiers of her own army—but one of the men must have recognized her. After a harsh whispered word from him, they averted their gazes and rushed past, suddenly with other places to be.

It hadn’t always been like this. Once, she was like other women, a time when men didn’t fear her. Sometimes she missed those simpler days, but she hardly remembered them now, they were so long ago. Only remnants of feelings remained, so few it never took long for the power brewing inside to overcome sentimentality. Despite occasional regret or longing, she’d do nothing differently, given the choice.

“Come away from the window.”

She faced the man in her bed, the red duvet pulled up to his chest against the chill air. His eyes dropped from her face to her breasts and lower, then back to her eyes. A wave of nausea and regret washed through her. She hid it expertly.

What must be done, must be done.

She strode to the side of the bed and looked down at the man.

“What are you whispering to the people, Hanh?”

Hanh Perdaro smoothed a stray hair back from his high forehead. “Exactly what we talked about. The king is dead, long live the king. The message is unchanged.”

“And the council?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and he reached out to stroke her arm with his fingers; she subtly leaned out of his reach.

“They have it in their heads to secretly rally the kingdom and banish their Kanosee foes. I’ve told Therrador to do as he’s told so you won’t catch on.”

She nodded, blond hair caressing her back. “We must be careful. If he organizes the people behind him, it could mean problems.”

“He won’t. That isn’t the whisper reaching the ears of the people, he only thinks it is.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the arm. When she neither reacted nor looked at him, he paused. “Why not be done with him and put me on the throne now?”

Why are men so stupid when a woman drops her dress?

“Therrador must remain on the throne until things are done.”

She turned her head to look into his eyes. They were not the eyes of a stupid man; Hanh Perdaro had lasted too long in the political arena of Erechania to be considered unintelligent. His eyes strayed to her breasts again, reminding her where his brains had gone.

“We have only taken one fortress. There is a kingdom yet to conquer. If Therrador is dethroned too quickly, the people will not submit to my control. He must put the knife in his own heart.”

“Our control,” Perdaro corrected.

“Yes, yes. Our control.”

She waved her hand at him and looked back to the window, wistful. She liked nothing better than the feel of wind in her hair and soil beneath her feet; a tent was usually the most she could stand. She’d felt such since childhood. How she longed to get up off the bed and rush into the night, to let the darkness embrace her, to dive into the cold water of the Sea of Linghala. That’s what freedom felt like.

“You should have told me you abducted Graymon.”

His words pulled her out of the cold autumn night and back into the bedchamber.

“What?”

“I said, ‘you should have told me you took Graymon’.”

She shook her head. “Why? The less you know of what I am doing, the easier it is for you to keep it from Therrador.”

“I wouldn’t betray you.”

She heard his offended expression in the tone of his voice. Part of her wanted to smack it from him, remind him who she was and that he shouldn’t be so comfortable, so expectant, but she held herself in check. She had further need of the Voice of the People.

“I learned long ago the best way to keep from being betrayed is not to share your plans.” She smiled a fake, sickly-feeling sweet smile. It was enough for him and the stern look melted away like ice on the first day of spring. “Do not take it personally, love.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. His breath sighed out through his lips and past her ear, stirring her hair. Hanh Perdaro was still fit enough and handsome enough for many women to find such a breath stimulating, but not the Archon. Her heart, her soul, belonged elsewhere, to no man on the earth. She did these things because they were the best way to get what she wanted from a man.

Make them stupid and they will do your will.

Perdaro lay back, head on the pillow, and she pulled the duvet off him, exposing his lithe body and the touch of gray hair on his chest. In one graceful movement, she swung herself onto him, straddling his hips. His expression went from taut, to surprised, to relaxed. A pressure grew between his legs, pushing against her, and she made herself smile at him and giggle like one of those women men didn’t fear. She wiggled her ass against the pressure until it slid inside her and the tautness returned to his face. He closed his eyes. She stared at him as she rocked back and forth, stealing his brains and his loyalty even as she loathed both him and the act.

One day soon, he’d have served his purpose. When the day came, she’d finally stop pretending and show him how she really felt. She smiled and closed her eyes, taking herself back to the cold sea as she waited for him to finish, then she would climb off, go to sleep, and dream of her empire.

The day had been very much like this one: clear and cool, the colors of autumn hanging from the trees and the taste of winter threatening on the wind. They weren’t at the Isthmus Fortress that day as Therrador was today. That day six years ago, he’d been camped with his troops in a muddy clearing at the foot of the mountains bordering Erechania and Estycia.

One of the mountain tribes had been sacking villages, killing good Erechanian citizens and plundering good Erechanian crops in the process. Braymon insisted Therrador lead the party to put the raiders down because his presence would show the king cared equally for his entire kingdom, no matter how remote. Therrador didn’t ask if he sent him with Seerna so close to giving birth because he forgot or because it didn’t matter to him. Either answer would have equated to the same thing: he didn’t care.

On that day, Therrador led one of the scouting parties himself. They found a couple of abandoned short-term camps, their burned out fires long dead, and nothing else. Twilight painted pinks and oranges across the tops of the mountains as he led his soldiers back to camp, the colors calming some of the frustration of a fruitless ride and his annoyance that his king had sent him. When he found Sir Matte Eliden awaiting his return, he knew something must be amiss.

“Therrador, my Lord,” Sir Matte panted as he jogged to Therrador’s horse. “There’s been a messenger.”

Therrador looked down into the man’s watery blue eyes. Reading Sir Matte’s mood in his eyes was difficult because he constantly looked on the verge of tears, but the hard line of his lips showing through his meticulously trimmed salt and pepper beard told the king’s advisor that the knight had something urgent that required Therrador’s attention.

“What is it, man? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Therrador slid off his horse and handed the reins to the groom who came up behind Sir Matte. As the lad led the animal away, Therrador put his hand on the knight’s shoulder and steered him toward his tent. “What would make a man of your years run about camp like he was out to have his heart burst?”

Sir Matte shook his head. “The messenger waits for you by your tent, my Lord. He wouldn’t speak his message to myself or anyone else. He said his words were only for you.”

Wouldn’t tell?

Therrador’s chest cinched about his heart, but he kept his face plain, his pace steady. If the messenger wouldn’t tell any but himself, then things were terribly wrong.

Has something happened to Braymon?

Looking back six years later, the irony that he thought first of the king struck Therrador. He had nary a thought of Seerna until reading her name on the damned parchment. He hated himself for it sometimes, but it spoke of what he lived his life for then.

The messenger waiting outside his tent had seen perhaps seventeen years, certainly no more. His jaw was set, determined to deliver likely the first message of any importance with which he’d been entrusted, but fear and uncertainty shone in his eyes. As Therrador approached, the boy straightened and saluted by thumping his fist against his chest hard enough to make himself flinch. Therrador didn’t return the formality, instead waving the youth into his pavilion.

Curiosity and anxiety fluttered in Therrador’s gut. Everything—the manner of the messenger’s arrival, Sir Matte coming to Therrador himself, the look in the boy's eyes—all pointed to news of the worst kind.

“Make sure no one disturbs us,” Therrador said over his shoulder.

He caught a glimpse of Sir Matte nodding as the tent flap fell into place, then he faced the young messenger. The boy seemed to tremble but, to his credit, his expression remained firm and resolved despite the look in his eyes.

“Sit.” Therrador indicated a stool beside the central fire pit where a blaze already flickered in the brazier. He pulled another stool from beside the bed and set it across from the boy. “What’s so desperate our king couldn’t wait for my return?”

“I don’t know, my Lord.” Without sitting, the boy fumbled a leather tube from his belt, opened the top and slid a rolled parchment out of it. “I wasn’t told what the message is, only that it’s for my lord’s eyes alone and it’s of the utmost importance.”