Awe surged into him. “Is that…”
“Yes,” said Khurazalin. “A Sign of the New God. It is yours, Prince Rypheus. Its power is yours to command.”
Rypheus bowed and then took the Sign from Khurazalin’s skeletal hand. “I shall use this power wisely.”
“A word of warning, though,” said Khurazalin. “After you use it to create your abscondamni, do not use it again until necessary. Once you do, its power will be awakened, and it will shine like a beacon of dark fire to the Sight of the Keeper. You will not be able to conceal it from her. But by then, King Hektor will be dead, and blame for his death and the slaughter at the banquet shall lie upon the Shield Knight and the Keeper.”
Rypheus donned the amulet and hid it beneath his tunic. “I shall follow your counsel exactly.”
“Go,” said Khurazalin. “When next we meet, you shall be King of Aenesium, Rypheus Pendragon. Your servants await you in the next hall.”
Rypheus bowed again to the Maledictus and then strode away to begin his destiny.
###
Khurazalin watched the Prince walk away, the vial of Qazaldhar’s poison in his hand.
The plan ought to work, Khurazalin thought. By midnight Hektor Pendragon, his court, his wife, and all his other sons should be dead, and Rypheus Pendragon would be the new King. Rypheus would blame the Shield Knight and the Keeper for the deaths, and that would be that.
The Staff of Blades thrummed in his hand, its leashed power waiting for his call.
The plan should work.
But if it did not…
Either way, by the end of this night, Aenesium would be neutralized as a danger, and the Shield Knight and the Keeper would no longer threaten the rise of the New God.
Even if Khurazalin had to kill them himself.
###
Rypheus strode into the next hall, the Sign of the New God resting against his chest. He felt the power surging through it, dark magic that waited for his call. It was just a hint of the power he would wield once the New God rose in might and fury, but even the merest taste was still intoxicating.
Soon he would have much, much more.
Two hundred men and as many saurtyri waited in the next hall, the men on their knees, the saurtyri looking anxious behind their masters. The men were both noblemen and commoners, and they were the followers that Rypheus had carefully gathered ever since Khurazalin had first told him the truth of the New God. Some truly believed in the coming of the New God. Other simply followed Rypheus for the promise of his power as King. He had kept their existence secret. That tiresome blowhard Nicion Amphilus had started to suspect that something was wrong, but his suspicions had come too late.
The saurtyri were there because Rypheus had asked his followers to bring them. He kept the disdain from his face. Stupid simple beasts. He hated the saurtyri, hated their yellow eyes, their scaly skins, their short, clipped sentences. When Owyllain was his, the saurtyri would be put to death and driven out like the vermin they were.
“Lord Prince,” said one of the men, a wealthy merchant. “Is it time?”
“Yes,” said Rypheus. “The hour has come at last. At this time tomorrow, I shall be King.”
“At last!” said the merchant, and cheers went through the hall.
“And I shall reward you now,” said Rypheus.
He reached into his tunic and drew out the Sign, its dark magic rushing through him. It felt better than wine, better than a woman.
“Lord King?” said the merchant, peering at him with undisguised greed.
Rypheus called the Sign’s power forth.
The merchant’s eyes went wide as the amulet blazed with red fire, and then he started screaming.
An instant later every other man and saurtyri in the hall starting screaming as crimson fire washed over them. They had taken the oaths and drunk the potions that Rypheus had provided for them, making them vulnerable to the power of the Sign.
The transformation began at once.
Rypheus had spent a great deal of time around Rypheus and Qazaldhar and the other Maledicti, so he had become inured to grotesque sights. Yet even he had to admit that watching hundreds of men and saurtyri transform into abscondamni was a disturbing experience.
Their clothes caught fire and burned away, and their skin turned to slime and boiled off their limbs. Their bodies twisted and distorted as their veins burned black and sacs of poison bulged from the glistening, bloody muscles, and yellow fire filled their eyes. Unlike normal abscondamni, bony yellow spikes burst from their arms like a row of serrated blades.
After about five minutes, the last of the screaming stopped, and the transformation finished. Four hundred new-made abscondamni stood before him, twitching and jerking as they breathed, slime dripping from their bloody limbs to sizzle against the floor.
Rypheus smiled at them, returning the amulet to its concealment beneath his tunic.
He hoped Hektor lived long enough to see them storm through the Palace of the High Kings before he died.
Hektor Pendragon, the mighty bearer of the Sword of Fire. Hektor Pendragon, the hero who had kept all of Owyllain from falling to Justin Cyros or the Confessor or one of the other bearers of the Seven Swords.
Hektor Pendragon, who had failed to save Rypheus’s mother, who had barely waited until her ashes were cold until he had started rutting with his concubines once more.
Did Hektor remember that? Rypheus didn’t know.
His smile widened. Perhaps Rypheus would get to remind Hektor of that before the King breathed his last.
***
Chapter 16: The Customs of Andomhaim
On the day of the King’s great banquet, Ridmark Arban was in a foul mood.
His confrontation with Kalussa and his conversation with Calliande had left him feeling drained and raw and ragged. Likely it was for the best. Ridmark should have been firm with Kalussa long ago. He hadn’t led her on, hadn’t flirted with her or given any indication that he intended to take her as a concubine, but neither had he been cold or hostile with her. Perhaps cold hostility had been necessary.
When he awoke the next morning, Kalussa was gone. Michael and Zuredek said that she had left in the night, taking her possessions with her and returning to the Palace of the High Kings. Ridmark still regretted how he had handled the matter. She had gotten on so well with the boys, and if not for Ridmark, she would have been friends with Calliande. For that matter, Kalussa had been brave and valiant, and they might not have won at Castra Chaeldon without her help.
Ridmark regretted alienating Kalussa, but she had forced him to choose between her and Calliande, and he had chosen Calliande.
He was glad that Calliande had finally conceded that Joanna’s death was not her fault. It was a step in the right direction. Ridmark knew grief, understood it far better than he would ever have wished, and he knew the grief of Joanna’s death would never leave Calliande, just as it would never leave him. But one learned to live with grief, and in time other things filled a life alongside it. The important part was that Calliande no longer blamed herself for Joanna’s death. That had poisoned her mind with grief. She had saved so many people with her magic, and the thought that she had failed to save her daughter was intolerable.
Now that Calliande accepted that she could have done nothing to save Joanna…well, perhaps she could mourn properly, mourn without ripping herself apart in the process.
Mourning self-destructively was also something that Ridmark understood well.
When he had said that Calliande’s efforts to get him past his grief for his first wife’s death had been exasperating, he hadn’t lied. She had been exasperating…but, then, she hadn’t been wrong, either.
Still, the conversations with Kalussa and Calliande had left Ridmark feeling emptied, and a foul mood filled that emptiness. Calliande had gone back to the Palace of the High Kings in the morning, saying she had more business with Queen Adrastea. Ridmark hoped she did not berate the Queen of Aenesium for encouraging h
er to accept Kalussa as Ridmark’s concubine, but he knew Calliande had better sense than that. King Hektor had no need for Ridmark’s presence that day since he was preparing for the banquet and then the arrival of the kings of Megarium, Callistium, and Echion.
So Ridmark spent most of the day with Tamlin and Aegeus and Kyralion, taking his foul mood out on them.
Fortunately, he had a productive way to do it.
“Again!” said Ridmark, stepping back, lifting Oathshield.
Tamlin wiped sweat from his forehead, blinking. “Another?”
“If Sir Aegeus is going to learn to use that dwarven axe properly without cutting off his own damned foot in the process,” said Ridmark, “then we’re going again.”
Aegeus grunted. “I like that argument.”
Ridmark, Tamlin, Aegeus, and Kyralion stood in the courtyard of Tamlin’s domus, swords in hand (or an axe in Aegeus’s case). Gareth and Joachim were in the corner, playing with practice wooden swords, though they stopped whenever one of the practice bouts began. Michael had seated himself on one of the benches, hands resting atop his cane, and watched the proceedings with great amusement.
“You never learned to fight with an axe,” said Ridmark. “Did you?”
Aegeus grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Ridmark. “Then Arcanius Knights learn to fight with sword and mace and spear, I assume?”
“We do,” said Aegeus. “Unless you’re Tamlin Thunderbolt. Then you learn how to fight with every manner of weapon under the sun.”
Tamlin snorted. “You’re welcome to have taken my place in Urd Maelwyn.”
“Your swings are too vigorous,” said Ridmark.
“It helps take the head off,” said Aegeus.
“Aye, but for most foes, you don’t need to take their heads off,” said Ridmark. “Hit them hard enough in the right place, and they’ll go down. The way you’re swinging, it’s taking you too long to recover your balance, and you’re leaving yourself wide open. Here.” He sheathed Oathshield and held out his hand, and Aegeus handed him the axe with a look of amusement. Ridmark took a few practice swings with exaggerated slowness. “Do you see? Keep the axe controlled. Never have it so far out from you that you can’t pull it back, or use it to parry if necessary.”
“Lord Ridmark is correct, Sir Aegeus,” said Kyralion. “Seventeen times you left an obvious opening that a swordsman could exploit.”
“Seventeen?” said Aegeus, exasperated. “You counted?”
Kyralion shrugged. “It seemed prudent.”
Ridmark handed the axe back. “Your instincts are good. You’re still alive, after all. But control those swings. Leave yourself open once too often, and that will be that.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Sir Aegeus,” said Michael. “Either you need to start carrying a shield, or not swing so wildly. I’ve seen it before. Get in axe in your hands, and your instinct is to start flailing away. Men know there’s art to sword work, but fewer of them know there’s an art to using an axe as well.”
Aegeus laughed. “Fine. If the Shield Knight, the gray elf, and the old gladiator all agree that I need to control my swings, I’ll control my swings.” He cracked his neck. “But tomorrow. Right now, I need to get ready for the banquet.”
Ridmark frowned and glanced at the sky. “So soon?”
Aegeus laughed. “I’m a bachelor, Lord Ridmark, and I don’t want to spend the night alone. And when I get a lovely lass into my bed, I…”
Tamlin cleared his throat and jerked his head towards Gareth and Joachim.
“I don’t want her to think I’m an unwashed churl,” said Aegeus.
Tamlin clapped him on the shoulder. “No, she’ll think you’re a washed churl.”
“Come along, Sir Aegeus,” said Michael, heaving himself to his feet. “I’ll have the saurtyri draw you a bath, and give you a shave. If you meet that lovely lass, we don’t want her thinking you’re an unshaven churl, now do we?”
Aegeus laughed and left with Michael, leaving Ridmark and Tamlin and Kyralion in the courtyard.
“These banquets,” said Ridmark. “Are they important?” He found himself looking for an excuse to get out of it, though he knew that was a bad idea.
“They are a tradition dating back to the founding of Owyllain,” said Tamlin. “Before the army marches to battle, the King hosts his Companions, his knights, his advisors, and as many common hoplites as will fit into the hall. They feast and drink and toast each other’s valor, and prepare themselves to face the battle on the morrow.”
Ridmark nodded, tapping his fingers against Oathshield’s hilt.
“I do think you should attend, Lord Ridmark,” said Tamlin. “It could be seen as an insult to King Hektor if you do not.”
“Damned politics,” muttered Ridmark. Still, Tamlin was right. And Hektor had not raised the issue of Kalussa again with Ridmark. Likely he had dispatched Adrastea to wear down Calliande instead. “No, you’re right. I’ll be there.”
Tamlin hesitated. “Is…Lady Kalussa still staying here, Lord Ridmark?” Ridmark looked at him. “Michael and Zuredek need to know. And she left without telling anyone.”
“I doubt it,” said Ridmark. “We…quarreled. Rather sharply. Likely she would prefer to stay at the Palace.”
“I see,” said Tamlin. “Well, Sir Aegeus has the right idea. I’m going to get ready for the banquet.”
Ridmark snorted. “Don’t feel like spending the night alone, is that it?”
“Well.” An odd expression flickered over Tamlin’s expression, a strange mixture of guilt and regret and old grief. “Not all men have your self-control, Lord Ridmark.”
He bowed and disappeared into the domus.
Ridmark spent the next hour with his sons, showing them more tricks of swordplay, though the training more often than not turned into a game. A pang of regret went through him. Both he and Calliande would leave with King Hektor’s army tomorrow. He knew that between Michael and Father Clement, the boys would be in good hands.
But Ridmark would not be with them.
He wondered if his own father had felt that way when his sons had gone off to become pages and squires, if Dux Gareth had felt that way. Ridmark wished he could have asked them, but both men had been dead for longer than Ridmark had been married to Calliande.
The thought put him in a darker mood, but he kept it from the boys.
At last Michael returned and suggested, as tactfully as possible, that Ridmark might wish to prepare for the banquet. Ridmark conceded the point and went to his room to shave, wash and dress as quickly as possible. He supposed he ought to don finery, but he hadn’t wanted to spend the money, and he was too irritable to care. Instead, he dressed as he usually did, but also donned his dark elven armor and his gray cloak, Oathshield at his belt. Since the dark elven armor was priceless, he supposed it was suitable garb for a banquet with a king.
Ridmark bade his sons good night and joined Kyralion in the domus’s entry hall. A few minutes later Aegeus and Tamlin joined them, and Ridmark fought to keep from laughing. Both Tamlin and Aegeus had donned garish red tunics with gold trim, evidently the formal garments of the knights of Owyllain. They had oiled their hair and polished their boots, and Tamlin had even found an ornamented scabbard for his sword. Suddenly Ridmark remembered his days as a squire and a young knight at Castra Marcaine, remembered how the squires and young knights had competed to impress the ladies of the court.
He felt old.
“Armor, Lord Ridmark?” said Aegeus.
Kyralion blinked. “Is that not the custom?”
“Custom or not,” said Ridmark, “it’s cheaper than buying a new tunic.”
“True enough,” said Tamlin. “Is Lady Calliande joining us?”
“She said she’ll meet me there,” said Ridmark. “Ready?”
They were, so Ridmark supposed it was time to get this over with.
###
Ridmark followed Tamlin and Aegeus into the gr
eat hall of the Palace of the High Kings, Kyralion trailing uncertainly after him.
He had to admit that Hektor Pendragon knew how to throw a splendid feast for his men.
Long tables and benches had been placed in the vast hall, and fires had been lit in every hearth, throwing dancing shadows over the walls. A high table had been set at the dais for King Hektor and his wife and children, and Ridmark glimpsed Rypheus standing there, laughing as she spoke with some of Hektor’s younger Companions. The high table had chairs, but the lower tables had benches. Ridmark wondered where he and Calliande would be seated.
For that matter, he wondered where she was. Had she been called off to heal someone?
“Lord Ridmark,” said Kyralion. “A request, if I may.”
“Aye?” said Ridmark.
“I wish to withdraw to the Palace’s gardens if it does not cause offense,” said Kyralion. “I am not comfortable with such a large gathering.”
“Of course,” said Ridmark. “You will not cause offense. You can return to Sir Tamlin’s domus if you wish.”
“I have spent much time traversing the wilderness alone,” said Kyralion. “This is the longest time I have ever spent in a city. A walk through the Palace’s gardens will be pleasant.”
“Go,” said Ridmark.
Kyralion hesitated. “Though I might fail my charge from the Augurs if I do not keep watch over you.”
“I doubt I’ll be in any danger here,” said Ridmark. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kyralion offered a stiff bow and vanished through the doors into the gathering twilight, heading for the Palace’s gardens. Ridmark found himself envious.
He turned as a small army of saurtyri and serving women appeared, bearing trays with goblets of wine. One of the saurtyri approached Tamlin and offered a tray, and Tamlin took two goblets, and while Aegeus took only one.
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