Throne of Dragons

In that moment, Renard knew what he was going to ask for. It seemed that Lord Carrick knew it too.

“No,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Renard. “This man is mine to kill. He has stolen from me!”

“And we have need of a thief,” Verdant said in that too honeyed voice of hers.

Wrath joined in, cracking his knuckles. “Unless you want to break your word to us? Unless you want the Hidden for an enemy?”

“I…” Lord Carrick looked from them to Renard and back. Renard could feel the hatred there. He found himself hoping that hatred would be enough for him to order some guard to put a blade in him anyway. It would probably be better than what the Hidden had planned.

“Take him,” Lord Carrick snapped, gesturing to Renard. “He is yours now, to do with as you wish. Take him and go.”

Damn it, Renard couldn’t even rely on a man like his lordship to do the stupid, cruel thing. He could only watch as Void and the others came over to him. The Hidden’s leader nodded to Verdant, who touched the ropes that held Renard.

He smelled the scent of rot that went bone deep, and deeper, the scent of blooms opening in a deep forest somewhere, already consumed with fungi. Even as he smelled it, the hemp of the ropes seemed to blacken and fall from him, crawling with maggots.

Wrath lifted him to his feet easily. He took the chains that held Renard, and he snapped them.

“I’ve already told you that I’m happy here,” Renard said to Void.

The other man’s cloaked shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “That does not matter. You have been given to us now, in law. If you try to run, we will hunt you. If you fight us, we will do things to you that will make children weep when their mothers tell them of it.”

The worst part was that there was no drama in the way he said those words. They were as cold and even as a grave slab.

“You could have come with us before,” Verdant said. “There would have been such rewards.”

“And we would not have had to call in a promise made to us,” Void said.

Renard tried to think of a good way out of this. There was none.

“If you try to fight, I will hurt you,” Wrath said.

“And I will find the one you looked at so sweetly as they dragged you out,” Verdant promised. “We’ll hurt her too.”

“You—”

Void held up a hand and the silence was like a club, stopping them all.

“Enough of this,” he said. “We have what we came for. Renard the thief, you will come with us, as you were always going to come with us.”

“You’re claiming it is fate, now?” he asked.

The Hidden’s leader made a papery sound. It took Renard a second to recognize it as a laugh.

“It is simply the will of the Hidden. We get what we want, thief. Now come; you have an item to procure for us.”

Renard went. As he did, he glanced back to Lord Carrick, wondering if it was too late to ask him to execute him anyway. It would probably be a lot quicker than everything his new companions had planned for him.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Vars was waiting when the army returned to Royalsport. He stood atop the castle’s battlements, looking out in fear, knowing that when his father and his brother returned, he was going to face their full wrath for what he had done. For what he had failed to do.

No, I did all I could, he insisted to himself.

Lyril was not there. Vars was surprised by that. In recent weeks, she had been by his side almost constantly, yet now she was gone. He could guess why: the rumors about him coming back alone when he was supposed to be protecting his sister had already started.

When his father got back, he would be disinherited. Vars was sure of it. Below, the city bustled, smoke coming from the chimneys, the streams currently at low tide between Royalsport’s many islands. Vars stood there until he could see the advance of the soldiers returning, the blocks of the troops moving in concert, the Knights of the Spur shining as they rode in gleaming cohorts. His fear built with every step they took closer, until Vars was sure that the best thing to do was flee, run from the castle and never come back.

He swallowed and headed down through the castle, hastening past servants who seemed to be hurriedly preparing for the return of the king, polishing floors and silver, brushing dust from tapestries and setting out food in readiness. He pushed one aside as he moved through a hall with low beams overhead, heading for his rooms.

In those, he grabbed a sack, trying to decide what he would need to take. He threw in clothes, obviously, then coins. He took silver candlesticks, reasoning that he would be able to sell them, and grabbed jewelry. If he was not here, then his father and his brother could not do anything to him.

He was still trying to decide what to take when a servant appeared in the doorway.

“What?” Vars snapped, his fear turning into anger, as it so often did.

“Your highness,” the servant said. “You need to come. Your father…”

Was this what it had come to? Had they sent servants to drag him there? Would there be knights waiting outside the door, ready to carry him away?

“One moment,” Vars said, trying to think of a way out of it. Perhaps he could still slip away.

“Your highness,” the servant said. “Your father has fallen in battle. You must come to the great hall.”

Sheer shock dropped Vars to his knees. He tumbled, not understanding.

“My lord, can I help you?” the servant asked.

Vars waved the servant off, climbing back to his feet by grabbing onto a statue of some hero Vars didn’t even know the name of. He didn’t feel very heroic right then, barely had the strength to pull himself up again. The weight of the statue held Vars in place, staring at the servant there, barely comprehending the words.

“Say that again,” he said. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Your father,” the servant said. “He has fallen. Not dead, but he will not wake. And your brother Rodry is gone.”

That took time to sink in past the wash of fear that had been filling Vars’s mind. The meaning of it took even longer. Seconds passed in silence, emotions flaring through him one after the other, and all at once. Fear, horror… relief. It was too much, too overwhelming to consider.

His father was fallen in battle. Vars could just about comprehend that. But for Rodry to be gone too…

“I’m… I’m king?” Vars said.

“Yes, your highness,” the servant said, and then corrected himself. “A regent, at least, while your father is… unwell.”

Vars stood there, blinking, trying to wait for it to make sense. Then he pushed past the servant, all but running down in the direction of the great hall. He wound his way through the castle’s corridors, down spiral stairs and along galleries filled with the faces of dead kings. Would his father’s features be set there now? In time, would his?

Vars came to the great hall and had to shove his way inside, there were so many people there. There were nobles there, and knights, and more, the tables pushed back to the walls to make room for them, the normal demarcations of the carpets for each group forgotten in the crush. Vars had never been in a battle, but now he was starting to get a sense of what it might be like, and he was glad that he had avoided it.

“Step back!” he commanded. “Let me through.”

To his surprise, people did. They gave way to him, letting him to the front where, upon the dais that held the thrones for king and queen, his father lay upon a table set with white cloth, still in his full armor.