Bodies littered the steps that led up to the keep. The acrid smell of death was more pungent when it wasn’t mingled with the heat of battle. An involuntary heave made Calen catch vomit in his mouth, but he choked it back down.
He twisted his body sideways as a warning flashed in his head from Valerys. A searing pain burned through his side as the blade bit into his skin. Calen stumbled backwards from the shock. His fingers fumbled for purchase on the handle of his sword as he moved to block the next strike. A whoosh passed his head as an arrow plunged into his attacker’s eye, spurting blood as he fell to the floor. He shook for a moment, then lay still.
Calen’s heart hammered against his chest so hard that it hurt. Valerys stood beside the man’s head. A deep growl bubbled in his throat as he watched for signs of movement.
Therin bounded up the steps. He pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it as his eyes swept the landing. He lowered it ever so slightly when he was satisfied. “Are we going in?”
Aeson nodded.
Calen felt a hand on his shoulder. “What’s in there, Calen?” There was a look on Dann’s face that Calen hadn’t seen before. Fear. His eyes were sunken, his shoulders were drooped, and his hand was clasped against his ribcage.
“The king.” Calen tried to sound as confident as he could, but inside, his heart beat like a horse at a gallop, and his sword hand shook every time he lost focus. He needed to be strong for Dann.
The hall looked much the same, except the purple and gold banners fell flat, drooping down from their mounts. The torches seemed dimmer in their sconces. Everywhere he looked, his eyes fell on the bodies of slain Kingsguard. A chill ran through Calen’s body. The farther they walked into the hall, the deeper the light retreated.
“There is a dark magic here,” Therin muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
The sound of their footsteps and the click-clack of Valerys’s claws on the smooth stone echoed through the halls, piercing the otherwise eerie silence. Calen knew that at the end of the hall was Arthur’s throne, perched on its raised dais, even if, at that moment, it was shrouded in the absence of light.
“It is about time.”
The voice carried through the empty hall, scratching at the air. It hissed from all sides, but Calen knew where it came from. He didn’t have to look at Dann to see the fear on his face. It was the same fear that Calen felt when he heard that voice for the first time in the mountain pass.
Even as they drew closer to the dais, it became no clearer. Blackness enveloped everything outside arm’s reach. Calen waved away his mind’s idea to create a baldír; it was less than useless the last time. They pressed on, but the voice didn’t stop.
“You’re too late… Far too late.”
The dais couldn’t have been more than twenty feet away, though it was impossible to tell. There was an unfamiliar nervousness in Dann’s voice as he whispered, “Calen… that doesn’t sound like the king…”
Calen didn’t reply; he didn’t get the chance. Without warning, the darkness peeled back, as if it were a shroud of fog retreating with the dawn. Calen gasped as the dissipating darkness revealed even more corpses. The entire hall was covered in the bodies of Belduaran soldiers, those who had come to protect their king.
The Fade stood at the foot of the dais, its black hooded cloak draped over its shoulders. The blue swirls that adorned the cloak shimmered in the firelight, dancing with the flickers from the sconces. Beside the Fade was a young man, suspended by threads of Air that were twisted around his arms and legs. His mouth was forced shut, but his eyes were screaming. Fear muddled with sadness. Tears streamed down his cheeks. It was Daymon, the king’s son.
“By the gods…” There was a tremor in Aeson’s voice, a weakness that sounded alien coming from that man’s lips. Calen’s eyes settled on the throne. It was Arthur.
The king sat in his throne. Even in death, he looked every bit the king he was. His golden crown rested on his head, just above the white wings that streaked through his blackish-grey hair. His coat was a deep purple, the edges trimmed with gilt. On the left side of Arthur’s chest, where his heart should have been, was a gaping wound the size of a man’s fist. The blood that stained the front of the king’s coat and trousers was dry.
The Fade stepped closer, drawing his hood back. Its shoulder length-hair was as black as its cloak, as black as its soul-drinking eyes. Its near-translucent skin sent a shiver down the back of Calen’s neck. Its brittle lips cracked as they moved. “It seems the Hand could not carry out their task.” Irritation flashed across the Fade’s face as its black pools cast their gaze across the group. “No matter,” it said, flicking its tongue across its teeth. “It is more satisfying to do these things yourself.”
Calen couldn’t take his eyes off Arthur. His mind was awash with guilt. The man came to him earlier that night, and Calen had ignored him. Arthur had treated him well, and Calen all but spat his apology back in his face. Now he was dead.
“He died quickly,” the Fade hissed, a wicked grin on it’s face. “I can’t say I will do the same with his offspring, though.”
The Fade clicked its tongue off the roof of its mouth as it surveyed the scene. “I can give you a chance to save him, though,” the Fade
