The air shimmered, and Isseran lurched across the room towards the King, his black cloak swirling around him. “Curse you, Haven, you never learn, do you?” His bony fingers curled like claws around the King’s arm. A knife flashed in his other hand.
“Learn what?”
“That your presence is not required. The King’s reign is over. Long live the Ascendants.” Isseran swung towards the King, and Birlerion flung out his arm, pointing at the Ascendant.
“No,” he shouted, and Isseran flinched back. Birlerion stared at his hand, bemused as a faint blue light flickered out.
Jerrol scrambled over the King and launched himself at Isseran, who stumbled back under his weight, releasing his hold on the King. They grappled, rolling around on the floor. Jerrol gritted his teeth and hung on, both hands gripped around Isseran’s wrist until Birlerion hauled Isseran off him. Birlerion slugged the Chancellor, and he folded to the floor.
“Are you alright, Captain?” Birlerion crouched beside him. Helping him sit up, he tightened the binding around his leg. Jerrol groaned, sweat beading his brow. “Hold this a moment.” Birlerion placed Jerrol’s hand over the pad and checked the room.
Birlerion threw a withering glance at the cowering servants retreating out the door, tied Isseran’s arms behind him and after a quick search covered his head with a pillowcase.
“What are you doing?”
“If he can’t see he can’t disappear,” Birlerion said as he tied the material in place.
Tagerill loomed in the doorway, his silver eyes gleaming in the dull light. The servants dangled in each hand like game hung out to rest. Jerrol’s eyes narrowed as Birlerion helped him stand. “What have you given the King?” he demanded, flipping Isseran’s knife in his hand.
“N-nothing,” the man gasped, his eyes bulging with fear.
Birlerion loomed behind Jerrol’s shoulder, and the man gulped. Jerrol glanced at his Sentinal’s face and shivered; he started speaking fast. “Your life means nothing to me. Prince Kharel chose the wrong side, and so have you. I can kill you quickly or slowly, your choice.” He waved his hand at Birlerion, who took a step forward.
“J-just trealt, the Prince wanted the King to tell him the Mysteries.”
“The Mysteries?”
“The King’s secrets. His connection with the Lady and the Land, he wanted the truth. Prince Kharel wanted to know what it was so that they could use it.”
“And did he tell you?” Birlerion pounced and twisted his fist into the man’s chest. Tagerill raised the man higher.
The man swallowed, his face pale. “D-don’t kill me, please. I’m just a messenger.”
“You’re more than that, I think.” Birlerion tightened his grip. “Did he tell you?” he repeated, making his words a threat.
The man shuddered in his grip. “No, no, he speaks nothing but nonsense.”
Birlerion eased his grip as feet pounded up the stairs. The man stirred, thinking he was about to be saved, but he blanched as another tall silver-eyed man appeared instead.
“All secure,” Serillion reported, his eyes widening at the scene before him.
Tagerill grimaced. “We’ll lock them up until the King is ready to speak to them,” he said, thrusting them out of the room and out of his brother’s reach. “Serillion, guard the corridor. I’ll come back for that one.”
Tagerill dragged the terrified men away.
Jerrol turned back to the King. There was a strong aroma of incense hanging heavy in the air, but it wasn’t strong enough to cover the lately familiar scent of trealt. Jerrol cast a quick look around the room. A large bed dominated it. Apart from the bed, there was a table against the wall supporting what looked like a whole apothecary kit. Stacked underneath the table: a bedpan, water jug and bowl.
Reaching up, he turned down the flame of the incense and let some much-needed air in as he eased open the casement. A gust of rain-drenched air blew in and, taking a deep breath, he turned his attention to the King.
As Jerrol limped to the side of the bed, the mackerel-striped Arifel popped into the room. Chittering softly at Jerrol, he flew towards the bed, perched on the frame, and observed the King.
The King was a big man, big in body and big in character. A man of high intelligence and a cutting wit which kept his court alert. All were absent here. This man was grey and shrunken, ravaged by drugs and enforced illness. Jerrol was appalled at how much the King had been affected. How had he managed to become so isolated, so vulnerable?
Jerrol knew he was partly to blame. He had allowed Prince Kharel and Nikols to bundle him out of the King’s sphere, leaving the King exposed and unprotected, as had most of his other supporters. No more, Jerrol swore to himself; he would find a way to reverse this or die trying.
The sound of clashing swords from the hallway made Jerrol stiffen. Birlerion left to help Serillion. The King’s glazed eyes were open and watching him. Ari chittered, and the King’s eyes moved to the end of his bed, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Sire.” Jerrol took a deep breath, and stepped over Isseran’s body; he hovered over the King. The King convulsed as he saw the figure hanging over him. “Sire, it’s alright,” Jerrol said, catching his hand and looking the King firmly in the eyes. “It’s Jerrol Haven. Please, sire, I mean you no harm.”
“Jer, Jer, Jer,” the King stuttered, his voice thick.
“That’s right,” soothed Jerrol, “it’s me, your King’s Ranger, Jerrol.”
“Jer,” the King repeated more clearly.
“Yes, sire. They’ve been giving you trealt, sire. It’s what makes you feel so ill. The only remedy I know of that is to hand is alcohol. It counteracts some symptoms, distracts the brain, but only for a short time, and it will make you violently ill after.” Jerrol spoke
