'And so, stone by stone, my little king's tower of dreams is toppled.' Bhakir's voice was silky. He was enjoying every second of this. Castyll spat. He was too far away to reach anyone, but the gesture made him feel better.
Bhakir's heavy brows narrowed. 'You are a foolish hothead, just like your father,' he growled. 'You murdered him!'
'Aye, I did. And too simple a deed it was. As simple as murdering you right now. You've made it so easy for me, Castyll. By stealing out of the Blesser's temple and conveniently disappearing, you've practically done the deed for me. Almost disappointing, I must say. I was content with things as they were. Content to pull your strings and watch you dance.'
Outrage thrummed through the young king's veins. The sticky sweat of anger popped out on his brow, beneath his arms. He had thought he hated Bhakir before, but this-it dimmed his sight and hearing, made his heart swell with an abhorrence and loathing that almost overwhelmed him. Unbeknownst to him, a low growl of sheer white-hot fury began deep in his throat. His world suddenly narrowed to one thing-the image of the fat, hateful man who had deliberately, piece by piece, destroyed Castyll's world.
'But you have forced my hand,' Bhakin continued. 'Your Blesser's memory will be wiped as clean as the sand when the tide comes in. You will die within moments, by my hand. And don't think I won't relish every second of it. But first,' and he smiled, that terrible, falsely jovial, despised smile, 'you will watch your friend die before you.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Castyll caught a movement. It was Damir, his hands pinned painfully behind him, a sharp sword at his throat, being propelled toward the center of the room with ungentle pricks from a spear. He stumbled forward, falling and unable to catch himself with his tied hands. The sword was never more than an inch away from his neck.
How could this be happening? Damir was a powerful wizard. Castyll had seen his mind magic — and then he realized. Bhakir also knew of Damir's skills. He would have warned his men not to trust their eyes until they had Damir secured. With his hands straining against the rope and a sword ready to pierce the soft flesh of his throat, the great Byrnian ambassador was effectively bound and gagged.
Castyll knew what he had said to the Byrnians earlier, about dying with glory, fighting to restore his kingdom. That if there was no one here who was loyal to him, then he might as well be dead. But he had never truly believed failure to be possible. Of course Damir's message would get through; of course the men would be loyal to him.
Bhakir. In the end, always, it was Bhakir. And now Damir would pay the dreadful price first. Damir, who had risked all to help a king of a foreign land. Damir, whose advice had been sound, who had been right all along. Damir, who foolishly believed that Castyll Derlian had magic.
Bhakir watched the boy's face greedily. Then he nodded to the man who stood over Damir. The man lifted his sword.
'No!'
The word was ripped from Castyll's throat, a cry of utter despair and rage. At that moment, he seemed to hear a voice speaking from inside his head.
I am the Second who comes, to right a dreadful wrong. Wield you the Sword of Vengeance.
And all at once it was as if a veil had been lifted from Castyll's eyes. His blood sang and his body arched with the force of his emotions. He focused all his being on the silver blade of the sword as the guard lifted it to its height. There was a sharp crack and the guard toppled backward, screaming. The sword began to melt, turning first red, and then white hot, then losing its shape altogether as the molten steel flowed down over the man's hand and arm.
Immediately afterward Castyll heard the whiz of dozens of crossbow bolts being unleashed. Power surging through him like a savage tide, he spun on his heels. His eyes narrowed with outrage. He saw the tiny bolts, and with a wave of his hand thought: fire. Instantaneously, every last bolt exploded into a small ball of flame, flaring and then burning to harmless cinders.
More, thought Castyll. I want more.
His completely unexpected use of magic had galvanized Bhakir's soldiers. The clang of steel now rang through the hall, and Castyll thought of the swords, the dozen or more swords now being used on Damir's brave noblemen who had pledged their lives to serve him.
Sheath them!
And each sword of the enemy suddenly writhed like a fish. They sprang loose, sheathing themselves in the wooden doors, in the stone walls, in the bodies of the men who wielded them.
'An illusion!' Castyll heard the frantic cry dimly through the blood that thudded in his ears. With narrowed eyes, he turned his attention to Bhakir, who suddenly looked a great deal less sure of himself than he had a scant few seconds earlier.
'No illusion,' Castyll growled. 'The Sword of Vengeance!'
Castyll shoved his right hand forward, splaying the fingers hard. A ball of blue fire formed in his flat palm. It screamed past Bhakir, igniting his robes. The fat counselor cried out, futilely trying to extinguish the flames.
No. Not enough. Not enough for what you've done.
He stretched out both hands, clenched the fingers closed, and then yanked them back. Bhakir screamed, a high, falsetto shriek, as blood spurted from the sudden hole in his chest. There was a distance of some three yards between them.
Grinning fiercely, Castyll squeezed Bhakir's heart to bloody pulp between his strong fingers. Now unseen hands reached and grabbed bits of the dying man. Flesh and blood flew as Castyll, delighting in the carnage, ripped Bhakir apart without even touching him.
Take care. My Sword cuts both ways.
The red haze of bloodlust lifted. Castyll suddenly felt bile rise in his throat. There was nothing remaining of Bhakir but a bloody pile of tiny lumps of flesh being ripped into still smaller pieces. He gasped, staggered forward a few steps, and fell to his knees. The terrible shredding ceased.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked away, glancing up wildly. Castyll calmed a little when he realized it was Damir. The older man helped the king to his feet, but said nothing. Castyll glanced about, still panting. The guards who had minutes before been ready to slaughter him stared back. Their leader had been destroyed. Their weapons had melted in their very hands. They waited, for orders from their new liege-or death.
Castyll's throat hurt. Probably he'd been screaming his throat raw and not realizing it. He swallowed a few times, then spoke.
'Before you were Bhakir's men, you were my father's men,' he rasped. 'I don't know what Bhakir used to turn you against the Derlian line. Money, or promises of power, or fear. It doesn't matter. The line has run true-I now know, and you bear witness that I have the magical skills of my father, and his father before him.' He straightened, pulled away from the supporting arm of Damir. His words rang like bells through the suddenly silent hall.
'I am Castyll Derlian, rightful king of Mhar. You are a body without a head, men without a leader. Serve your king, or await his punishment. Choose!'
For a long moment, no one moved. Then, one by one, the guards dropped to their knees. A wave of movement crested along the galleries as the archers dropped their weapons and made obeisance. A smile touched the youth's mouth. Gods, he was weary; so weary. And terrified by what had lain, latent and silent, in the depths of his soul to be awakened by… what? His own desperate need and desire? Castyll suspected more than that.
I am the Second who comes, to right a dreadful wrong. Wield you the Sword of Vengeance.
Something, someone, had granted the young king access to his magical talent. He shuddered at the thought of the strange voice. He would need to speak of this to Damir at some point. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to his friend.
'I had no idea of the power of such magic. I didn't mean…' No. He would not start out the first moments of his true reign with a lie. He turned to gaze speculatively at the tattered pile of bloody flesh that had been Bhakir. 'No. I did mean to do that. And I do not regret it.'
'Your Majesty,' came a voice. It belonged to a man whom Castyll did not know, but whom he had seen often in Bhakir's presence. The man had been one of the 'scribes' standing near the false Maren. He looked frightened but resolute.
