Lorcan smiled tiredly, but the King glared at Wynter with what looked like confusion and hurt. Wynter wanted to shout at him, who do you think you are? To look like that after all you’ve done?
“What did you think, child?” Jonathon asked, “Did you think that I would make your father desecrate his own art?” Then he was suddenly angry. His face darkened and he flung an arm about in an expansive, grandiose circle. It was a movement more fitting to an auditorium than to crouching on the floor with a prostrate carpenter and his apprentice, and Wynter thought the King was like a spoiled child denying that he’d broken a vase. “Do you see Salvador Minare here?” he continued, “Burning his own manuscripts? Do you see Gunther Van Noos hurling his paintings on the fire? What kind of a man do you think I am? That you would accuse me of making an artist destroy his own work?”
The kind of man who hurls his son downhill and tries to expose a good man’s brains to the light, Wynter thought, narrowing her eyes. Her expression must have been transparent as glass because Jonathon faltered and dropped his eyes, all his anger gone.
“You always were wicked quick to lose your temper, Jonathon Kingsson,” said Lorcan, his amused hiss breaking the tension.
The King groaned and passed his hand over his eyes. Then he amazed Wynter by dropping down into the sawdust to sit with his back to the wall by Lorcan’s head. He looked down into Lorcan’s face and put his hand on his old friend’s chest. Lorcan glanced up at him briefly. Jonathon sighed and laid his head against the wall, looking up at the sky through the library window.
“And you were always very quick to give your opinions, Lorcan Moorehawke. I should have shot you years ago.”
Lorcan chuckled. “There’s time yet.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Lorcan asked tiredly, “Will you kill the Hadrish?”
Wynter’s heart squeezed and her eyes widened in shock at the casual way he asked it. He could have been asking, will you attend the game? or, will you buy that horse? for all the emotion he had just put into the question.
“I won’t have to,” Jonathon said tonelessly. “Razi is bright enough to get rid of him first. Besides, he’s rather more useful alive… for the moment.”
“He is Razi’s friend!” exclaimed Wynter, dismayed at her father’s disinterest in Christopher’s fate. “He’s a good man! He is loyal!” She didn’t add the dangerously sentimental, he makes Razi laugh! He makes Razi happy!
The two men turned their heads to look at her, blue eyes and green eyes equally appraising of her. She felt tiny and stupid under their combined scrutiny.
“He’s too dangerous,” said the King dismissively. “He’s unsuitable.”
“There was a time,” rasped Lorcan, “that people said the same about me.”
The King grinned. “Ah, Lorcan, you are different.”
“I know my place,” Lorcan murmured, without a trace of bitterness.
“Aye,” whispered the King, patting his friend’s chest. “We both know your place. Razi doesn’t understand things like that yet.”
The men subsided into silence again.
Who are these men? thought Wynter. I don’t know them at all. This was not her circumspect, courtly father, and this certainly wasn’t the remote and demanding King. These men, she realised with a start, truly were friends.
“What ails you, brother?” It took Jonathon a while to ask it, and he did so reluctantly, as if by asking he might push Lorcan irretrievably over the edge of some precipice.
“My heart is failing me,” Lorcan answered simply.
Jonathon closed his fingers slowly on her father’s chest, gathering a bunch of Lorcan’s shirt in his loose fist. “I will get Razi to attend you,” he said quietly.
Oh, thank you! Thank you! thought Wynter, tears springing to her eyes.
Lorcan didn’t move, but Wynter saw his eyes gleaming under the shadow of his arm. He blinked a few times in the silence, and then he rasped, “You know I love that boy.” Jonathon tilted his head and tightened his jaw as if to say, Don’t! Please! But Lorcan went on. “He was always a most excellent child, and now a great man. But he is no king, Jonathon. You haven’t bred him for it. He is, and always will be, a doctor.”
Jonathon growled but Lorcan continued, his tone grating, “For Godssake, man,” he said, “it’s what you’ve wanted for him since the day he was born, it’s what he’s trained for since he was eight years old. He has a God-given talent for it. He is a blessing to the world, Jonathon. What are you doing, that you would destroy him like this?”
Jonathon was quiet for a long time, and Wynter held her breath, trying to remain invisible.
“They will never accept him, Jon.” Lorcan covered the King’s hand with his. “It doesn’t matter what you do. Despite all his worth, despite all his talents, regardless of all the magnificent things Razi brings to this world, the people will only ever see him as your brown bastard.” Jonathon winced at that, and Wynter recoiled at her father’s unflinching bluntness. “And they will kill him, Jonathon. They will kill him rather than let him take the throne.” Lorcan let his hand drop back to the floor. “You know that.” That last was a whisper so soft as to be a sigh.
Jonathon breathed in deeply. Cleared his throat. “I have no choice,” he said. “He’s all I have left.” His jaw muscles tightened and he turned his head to look down at his friend as though preparing for an argument. Lorcan didn’t respond.
“Dad?” Wynter whispered.
“Lorcan!” Jonathon gripped the front of his friend’s shirt and shook hard.
Lorcan gasped, startled and took his arm down from his eyes, staring blearily, “What?”
Jonathon and Wynter both released terrified, relieved laughs.
Lorcan frowned up at them, confused. He sighed and closed his eyes. “I can’t do any more today, Jon.”
“It must be done,” Jonathon said, his voice hard. “If you cannot finish in time, then I must retain some help. I can’t afford to wait. A team of woodworkers could get this whole room done in a few days. I’m delaying just to please you, Moorehawke! It’s ridiculous!”
Wynter’s hands knotted, but her father just nodded. “I know. I know. Just give me today. That’s all I need.”
Jonathon seemed to collect himself at that. He looked away, and said quietly. “I will get my men to carry you to your chambers.”
Lorcan’s eyes flew open. “No you will not,” he snarled. “I will not be paraded through the corridors like some fool in a tumbrel.” He reached his hand up to Wynter and attempted to rise.
Jonathon rolled his eyes to heaven and pressed his hand down on her father’s chest, pinning him to the ground. “Oh, stay easy, you bloody fool.” He got to his feet and went to the door.
The King murmured to his men for a moment, and Wynter steeled herself for the awful moment when they would come in and force her father to submit to this humiliation. Then Jonathon shut the door and stood listening to the corridor, his hand up to silence them.
What was going on? Lorcan tilted his head at Wynter, and she shoved her shoulder under his and pushed. He got his legs under him, and between the two of them they got him halfway to his feet before Jonathon turned and saw them. He released a pretty spectacular oath and crossed quickly to catch Lorcan under his other arm and lift him the rest of the way.
At a knock on the door Jonathon pulled Lorcan’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around his friend’s back. He glanced down at Wynter and nodded at her.
“Now,” said the King, “my men have cleared the hall outside, and they’ll clear each corridor as we go along, all the way from here to your rooms. No one will see you. Does that suit you, you stubborn rock-head? Or are you too bloody good to have the King help you walk?”
“Shut. Up,” hissed Lorcan and leant forward to get the three of them going. Wynter and the King jerked into motion and, between them, they made it through the empty corridors with no one to witness his Majesty the King acting as a crutch to a lowly carp
enter.
Leverage
Lorcan sat down on the edge of his bed, trying to regulate his breathing. After a moment’s uncertainty, the King mumbled something about getting Razi, and fled. Wynter shut the hall door behind him, blocking out the curious faces of the guards. She leant against the wood for a moment, her eyes shut, her head spinning. Then she went back to her father.
Lorcan was trying to undo the buttons on his shirt and failing. Wynter brushed his hands away and took over. He let her for a moment, sitting quietly as she undid four or five of the fiddly little bone buttons. Then he shook himself and abruptly knocked her hands away. He pushed her from him, his cheeks flaming.
“Dad!” she protested. “Don’t be stupid!”
“I’m not a bloody cripple!” he said harshly. “And I won’t make you my nursemaid!”
“Have some sense!” she cried. “Who will help you if I don’t? Let me undo your shirt!”
“No!” He pushed her away and then dragged the shirt over his head with a ping and scatter of many buttons. Wynter flung her hands out in frustration.
“Oh great! That’s just great! You’re a stubborn wretch, Dad! You need a toe up your backside!”
Lorcan didn’t respond. He let the shirt slip from his fingers and sank down onto the bed.
Wynter realised, with a pang of sympathy, that Lorcan hadn’t the strength to lift his legs onto the bed. She lifted them up and over for him, and he rolled onto his back.
She reached to take off his boots, but he pulled his legs out of her grasp and moved them away.
“Jonathon will do it,” he sighed and then shifted slightly and gritted his teeth against another stab of pain. She stood uselessly watching him for a moment and then began to creep quietly to the door.
Lorcan’s breathing became abruptly deep and unnatural, and Wynter bit her lips and fled out into the receiving room, intending on running into Razi’s suite and dragging him in by his hair.
But he was already on his way down the corridor when she ran out her door, his bag in his hand, his father on his heels. Razi nodded curtly to her under the glare of the guards, but his eyes were soft and reassuring. He put his hand on her shoulder when he came level with her, turned her smartly on her heel and guided her back into her chambers. The King followed, and shut the hall door behind them.
“Come on, sis,” Razi said, and he marched her into her father’s room and shut the door in the King’s anxious face.
Razi pulled off Lorcan’s boots and handed them to her, then she turned her back and fidgeted in the corner as Razi stripped Lorcan of the rest of his clothes and examined him. Finally she heard him pull the sheet up and Razi murmured that she could turn around now if she wished.
She was amazed to see that Lorcan was awake, lying on his side and watching heavy-eyed as Razi mixed a tincture in a beaker of water. Razi glanced down at him as he was putting some vials back into his bag, and seemed surprised to find Lorcan’s green eyes open and aware. He finished what he was doing and then knelt down by the bed, his face level with her father’s.
“Well,” he said gently. “You haven’t been resting at all, have you?”
Lorcan just smiled. Razi shook his head and patted the big man’s shoulder. “I have mixed you a draught. It’s much stronger than the last; it will force your body to take the rest it needs and you—”
“No…” Lorcan’s fierce response caused Razi’s lips to tighten and the young man to sit back.
“Lorcan—” he began sternly.
“No, my Lord! I cannot take your draught. And Razi… I am so sorry…” There was such heartfelt sincerity in this simple apology that Razi stared at him, his eyes growing huge in anticipation of something terrible.
“For what, good friend?”
“Tonight. The banquet. I must attend…”
Razi looked as though he had been hit. Wynter stepped from the shadows, appalled. She was about to say, you can’t! You haven’t the strength! And then the full import of what her father was saying struck her. Her father meant that he must show his support, his public support, for the King and his terrible decision to put Razi on the throne.
“Please, my Lord,” Lorcan’s words came out in a dry, urgent rasp and he moved his hand slightly as if trying to reach for Razi. “I beg of you, I beg of you. Forgive me?”
Razi shut his eyes. Wynter thought he was going to turn away from her father. She could tell that Lorcan thought so too.
“I know…” began Razi, his head down, “that you are my good friend, Lorcan. You have always been a most…” His voice failed him, and he put his hand on her father’s suddenly and squeezed hard. When Razi opened his eyes, they were glittering. “He has us both, dear friend. Does he not?”
Lorcan glanced quickly at Wynter and then back to Razi. Razi turned to look at her. She shook her head. No, she thought. No. Do not lay this at my feet! I can make my own way! I don’t need you to betray Alberon for me! Don’t blame me!
“I too have been forced to make a similar bargain today,” Razi said, looking Wynter up and down, but not really seeing her.
“Your friend,” whispered Lorcan. “How fares he?”
Razi’s eyes were huge and threatening to overflow. Then he tilted his head up and took a savage breath through his nose, gritting his teeth until he regained some composure.
“Christopher is in the keep.” He patted Lorcan’s hand, then pulled away. “I have not seen him since my father tried to murder him by pounding his head against a tree.” He stood up and began to busy himself with his instruments.
“Jonathon will not kill him,” said Lorcan. “Not if you do what—”
Razi flung a vial into his bag with sudden vicious force and slammed his hands onto the table. “If he touches him again! If he so much as—”
“Shhhhh,” hissed Lorcan.
Razi glared at him. “Shhhhh,” said Lorcan again, softer this time and Razi relented, nodding.
“My father cannot bear up to another feast, Razi,” Wynter said quietly.
Neither man looked at her. Instead they locked eyes – green to brown – both knowing what was at stake. Both knowing that she was right.
“Give me a moment,” said Razi suddenly. He strode quickly past Wynter, opening the door as though he expected his father to be lurking at the keyhole. But the King was sitting on the other side of the retiring room. He stood up expectantly, and Razi shut the door behind him as he stepped into the other room, leaving Wynter burning to know what was going on.
She glanced at her father, ashamed to eavesdrop in his presence, but to her surprise, he shifted his hand in a shooing gesture, urging her forward. She hurried to press her ear against the door, straining to hear the conversation in the next room.
Jonathon was exclaiming in exasperation, “We are all tired, boy!”
“No, Father! Not tired! Not bloody tired! Why aren’t you listening? The poor man is exhausted! He has nothing left! Can’t you understand? He has barely the strength left to keep his heart beating. He…”
“I cannot cancel the banquet. The arrangements…”
“What are they saying?” murmured Lorcan from the bed, and Wynter relayed the conversation in whispers.
“I need Lorcan by my side, boy!” The King was pacing, and Wynter could hear his voice, louder then quieter, as he passed to and fro. “I need him in public. I need him to be seen. The people love him. If they are convinced he supports me…”
“If you make that poor man take to the hall tonight, looking like he does now, everyone will be convinced that you have beaten him into submission, or poisoned him. He is not fit. He will shame himself and turn the people against you.”
Wynter reported all this faithfully, though she stumbled on the words shame himself and glanced over at her father. Lorcan just listened quietly, his arm back over his eyes. What she could see of his face was expressionless.
There was a long moment of silence and Wynter realised that Razi might finally have found an argument that
made sense to the King.
“Father,” asked Razi cautiously. “Why are you doing this?” He spoke very quietly, Wynter could imagine him skirting warily around the King, who she envisioned hunched and snarling like a great beast, smoke dribbling from his nostrils. She held her breath.
“What are they saying?” murmured her father again and she opened her mouth to tell him, but Razi had resumed speaking and she pressed her ear to the door once more.
“What is worth this? The gibbets. The repression. Inquisitors, for Godssake? You were never a brutal man, Father… now it seems you will sacrifice anything, anyone… and no one knows why…”
Wynter related all this in a rapid whisper, then paused as Razi waited for his answer.
Lorcan shifted his arm slightly, his eyes gleaming slits. “Has he replied?” he asked quietly.
Wynter shook her head. The other room was silent. Then Razi spoke again. “Where is my brother? Where is Alberon?” There was still no reply from the King and Razi pressed on, his voice hard. “What is The Bloody Machine?”
“He has asked the King, ‘What is The Bloody Machine?’”
At her words, Lorcan let out a tremendous howl of shock and despair, startling Wynter and making her spin around to stare at him, her back pressed to the door. At the same time Jonathon released a similar roar of horror from the next room.
“NO!” cried Lorcan, clutching the sheets in big gouging fistfuls and goggling at Wynter with terrified eyes. “NO!” He hoisted himself onto his elbow, his face scarlet, utterly distraught. “Get him in here!” he shouted, “Get him here now!”
“Who?” Wynter asked, confused.
“The King! The bloody King!”
When Wynter flung open the door Razi and Jonathon were on opposite sides of the room, both of them shocked and staring at each other, the King wild-eyed and devastated. “Majesty…” she began but her father roared from behind her, his voice filled with rage.
“Jonathon! Get in here, goddamn you! Come here!” He was gripping the mattress in a furious effort to keep himself up, and the sight of him had Razi exclaiming in horror and striding towards him. But Lorcan waved him aside and glared past him to the King, who was stepping warily forward, his face pale, his eyes hollow.
The Poison Throne Page 16