The King's Blood

masters.

Only, of course, it had been his fault as well. He should never have agreed to let Palliako be protector to the prince. It had only seemed convenient at the time. It had seemed innocuous. How could he have known it was the stray spark in a dry forest?

He rolled to his side as the enemy king protested, and forced himself up to sitting. He almost vomited. He would have if there’d been more in his belly. The cell was smaller than he’d thought. Ten feet from side to side, twelve deep. His kennels were larger.

The door opened and the high priest stepped in. The congenial smile was gone as if it had never been. No scowl took its place, and no frown. Basrahip might have been wearing a mask of himself cast from stone. Nothing about him moved. Dawson was gratified to see the lump of a bandage under the priest’s cloak where the knife had bit. Four men in leather armor with swords and daggers at their sides followed him, taking the door like the personal guard of a king. Dawson turned his head and spat out a bright red clot of blood.

“Where is Prince Geder?” Basrahip asked. His voice was distant thunder.

“There is no Prince Geder,” Dawson said.

“You’ve killed him.”

“No. He’s not a prince. He’s Lord Regent. That’s not a prince. Aster is prince and king, and Palliako is nothing more than a placeholder until he takes his father’s throne.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed.

“Where is Geder Palliako?”

“I don’t know.”

One of the guards drew a dagger. More torture, then. Dawson was ashamed to feel himself drawing back from the prospect.

“And the little prince? Aster?”

“I’ve been looking for him since this began.”

“To kill him.”

“To give him my loyalty and my sword against you and Palliako.”

Basrahip finally managed an expression. His wide brow kinked and furrowed. He sat on the ground in front of Dawson, his legs tucked under him. Dawson saw the guards glance at one another, confused.

“You are speaking the truth to me,” the priest said.

“You’re not worth lying to,” Dawson managed.

Basrahip’s amazement was almost comical.

“You treat truth as a kind of contempt? Oh. You are corrupt to the soul, Lord.”

“I don’t answer to you,” Dawson said. “You’re a bit of dirt that pulled itself off the riverbeds of the Keshet and started taking on airs. You aren’t worthy to clean my shoes. You don’t belong in the same city as Simeon. You don’t deserve to breathe the air he breathed.”

“Ah,” the priest said, as if understanding something. “You are in love with this world. You fear the coming of justice.”

“I don’t fear you or your whore of a goddess,” Dawson said.

“You don’t,” Basrahip agreed. “That is another mistake. But you cannot tell me where Prince Geder is, so you are insignificant. You have lost, Lord Kalliam. Everything you love is already gone.”

Dawson closed his eyes. He had the urge to roll to his side, pressing hands over his ears like a schoolboy refusing to hear a scolding, but he knew the priest was right. He had wagered everything that Palliako could be stopped. He’d lost. It didn’t matter that he’d be remembered as a traitor. To live for the legacy was only a way to pander to men as yet unborn. All that mattered was that his nation had been taken from its rightful rulers. Not even taken. Given away.

It was over.

The assault on Klin’s estate had been brutal. No swords rang, no arrows flew. But for two days, the priests had shouted at them. Their voices grew more annoying than flies. The same words, again and again: You have already lost. You cannot win. At first, Dawson had led the others in their refusal and mockery. As if they could be talked to death. Let them waste their breath until Bannien returned. Or if not Bannien, Skestinin. Every hour the priests spent talking was one less that they had to live.

But slowly, unmistakably, the laughter and bravado had hollowed out. Dawson had felt the growing suspicion that perhaps hope was fading. Perhaps time was allied to the enemy, and another passing day wasn’t something to welcome or hope for. He didn’t say it, nor did any of the others. It was in their eyes.

He’d been asleep when they came for him. The door of the withdrawing room had burst open in darkness, guardsmen with swords drawn pouring in. He’d leaped up. Even now, he could hear Clara screaming his name as they hauled him down the corridors, through the courtyard, and to the night-black streets. Odderd Mastellin had led them, his jutting chin making him look belligerent without seeming any less sheeplike. In the square, the siege tower was quiet. The priest stood before it. Behind him, in the light of the torches, the common men and women of Camnipol stood silently, like a collection of statues constructed at Basrahip’s whim. The sky above was black, and the torchlight drowned the stars.

“I’ve brought Kalliam,” Mastellin shouted. “I’ve brought him. Me. It’s the proof that I’m loyal. I’ve captured the enemy of the crown.”

“Congratulations,” Dawson had said loud enough to reach Mastellin’s ears. “You’re about to be the most loyal chicken in the wolf den.”

In truth, though, if Mastellin hadn’t broken, another of them would. Dawson understood that. It was the unholy power of their voices, insinuating their lies until they were indistinguishable from truth. Dawson had struggled against it. What hope was there for a weak-minded man like Mastellin? Or Klin. Or any of the others.

The enemy guard had accepted Dawson as a prisoner, and he’d been hauled away to the gaol and a day of beatings and humiliations ending here, in the same hole as his own captive and hoping that somehow Clara and Jorey had slipped the cordon. If he died, he died for his own judgment. But Clara… He’d have spared her that, if he could.

“Don’t blame yourself,” King Lechan said. “He’s more than either of us could have stood against.”

“What?”

“Palliako. Geder Palliako. He isn’t human. The dead walk with him and tell him their secrets.”

Dawson laughed, but it made his ribs ache and he stopped.

“Have you met him?” Dawson asked. “He’s a tool. He’d have been a scholar but he didn’t have the discipline for it.”

“I heard the guards talking about it. The one who brings the food? His brother saw Palliako by the fountain sitting with the dead king. He saw dead Simeon bow to him. This Palliako is a wizard, I think. Or a dragon in human skin.”

“He’s nothing like that. He’s a hobbyist. He didn’t command the death of your noblemen out of bloodthirst. He did it out of fear. The idea that if he could just cut off enough heads, he’d be safe. If he’d had to wield the axe himself, he’d have turned white and decided on clemency. He’s petty and a coward. He’s not even grand enough to be evil.”

King Lechan shook his head.

“He has defeated us.”

“No,” Dawson said. “I defeated you, and that hell-born priest defeated me. Palliako may have succeeded, but he’s never won anything. And he never will.”

They found him,” Lord Skestinin said. He sat on a small three-legged stool the guards had brought for the purpose. The prisoners were consigned to the floor, but Dawson didn’t take the slight personally. He was well beyond that now. “They said he rose up out of the ground with Prince Aster at his side. Walked back to the Kingspire dressed in robes like a commoner. He’d been on the streets the whole time, but no one knows where.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t saying he was killed in the original attack and rose up from the grave to preserve the kingdom,” Dawson said dryly.

Skestinin’s chuckle had a nervous edge.

“Odd stories do seem to find ways to attach to that man, don’t they?”