Diana stared at him. “What do you want, milord?”
“I think we should strike a bargain, milady. In return for my silence about your relationship with a bard, you will become my consort. Sound fair?”
Diana laughed. “I’ve refused you three times, milord. What makes you think that I’ll accept you under threat?”
Kensington leaned against the wall. “I heard every word uttered in this room. All I have to do is send a messenger to the palace. Does the bard mean anything to you? You’re the only one who holds his secret. How will he feel when he learns that you’ve betrayed him?”
Diana whirled, slid her hand under her pillow, and pulled out a dagger. She pushed Kensington and shoved the dagger against his breastbone. “I don’t like to be threatened,” she said.
“So you believe the bard.” He kept his voice calm. He liked the way she touched him, how close she was to him. Her perfume smelled better mingled with her scent.
“What I believe doesn’t matter. But if what he says is true, you would be killing him.”
Kensington looked at the dagger. Diana’s hand was trembling. “What are you going to do?”
She opened her mouth, drew in breath, and Kensington thought she was going to scream. He grabbed her wrist. She pulled away from him and tried to plunge the dagger into his chest. He sidestepped. The dagger hit the wall and stuck. He lunged for the hilt, knocking her hand away. Diana reached for the blade as he pulled the dagger from the wall. She hit him, knocking him off balance. Her hand covered his and they fell to the floor. She had him pinned. She tried to pry the dagger from his hand. In a moment she would scream and the guards would catch him. He wrenched his arm free and shoved the dagger forward. It thunked as it slid between her ribs.
Diana’s eyes widened. As he let go of the hilt, her hands found it. She tried to pull it out, but her fingers kept slipping. She fell back against the bed, blood spreading along her dressing gown. Her hands slid off the dagger. He touched her face, but her eyes were empty.
He crawled over to her and hugged her against him, stroking her hair. Diana. He wanted her as badly as he wanted the land. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think. The bard was the last one seen leaving the room. If Kensington left another way, they would blame the bard. He was already under suspicion.
Another way. The window. He kissed Diana’s head and leaned her back against the bed. Then he hurried to the window and pulled back the shutters. The wind blew in, chilling him. He leaned out. The drop was long, but he was tall.
He hefted himself onto the stone ledge. He gripped the edge tightly and lowered himself to his full length. Then he took a deep breath and let go. The fall seemed to last forever. Finally his feet hit the mud–the soft, soft mud that cushioned his fall.
PART FIVE
Chapter 24
i
The air was still, but the whistle-wood trees moaned. Their cries echoed deep in the earth, warning of the final time, warning of blood. The sound throbbed across Kilot, to the dwelling of each Enos. Dakin’s Enos sidled up to the riverbank and listened. Jelwra’s Enos stopped a conversation with Usci in mid-sentence and put her ear to the ground. The bluff Enos, sleeping beneath one of the young trees, let the cries seep into her dreams, filling her mind with blood and white mists.
They all stood, they all responded, they all headed for the Cache, knowing they had to arrive before the final time started, before the bloodletting began. The Old Ones were calling, and time traveled in circles in the mind. The earth cried for blood, was filled with blood, would fill with blood, unless the bloodlust ended before it even began.
ii
Byron entered the audience chamber before dawn. The room was empty. He had been up all night, thinking, consolidating his power with his friends. And now he had to take action, even though he wasn’t ready.
The chamber felt long that morning, narrower than usual. The swords decorating the walls seemed ominous, more a warning than decoration. Byron climbed the stairs and stopped before the dais. The king’s chair was wider than the others, covered with hand-carved animals and scenes from Kilot’s history. The chair was his now. As a child he used to sit in that chair, feet dangling above the floor, and imagine how he would rule Kilot. Then, when he lived on the streets, he used to remember those moments and think them part of a long, cruel dream. His younger self might have thought that the dream was over now; he knew that it had merely changed.
The polished wood was smooth and warm to the touch. Yesterday his father had sat here, listening to lords Boton and Ewehl, and probably thinking of the upcoming festival and a life that included Almathea. If Byron had spoken to him yesterday, the king might still be alive. But the king was dead, and the assassin wouldn’t admit who hired him. The Enos said Kensington had started the bloodshed, but she could have been referring to other bloodshed, the attempts on Byron’s life.
The squeak of the chamber door echoed in the morning stillness. Byron whirled, his hand on his sword. Afeno smiled a funny little half smile and waved. Byron smiled back. So much for ceremony. But he and Afeno were friends, not king and subject, and Byron never wanted that to change.
Byron let his hand relax and he sat on the chair. The carvings dug into his back and buttocks, and he wondered how his father had managed to spend all day there. “Did you find Lord Boton?”
“Colin’s bringing him,” Afeno said.
The door opened once more, and Colin entered, followed by Boton. The lord still wore the clothes he had worn the evening before. They looked crumpled and stained. The deep circles under the lord’s eyes made Byron realize that Boton hadn’t gotten any sleep either.
“You sent for me, sire?” Boton spat out the title as if he wanted his mouth free of it.
Byron stretched his legs out across the dais and crossed his feet at the ankles, pretending a relaxation he did not feel. “I did. We have a lot to discuss, and I thought it best that we talk in private. Take a chair, Boton.”
Boton grabbed a chair behind Byron and pulled it closer. Alma had sat in that chair when Byron petitioned his father to feed the peasantry. Byron sighed. He would redecorate the audience chamber, remove the memories of his father from the room. “Boton,” he said. “You swore your allegiance to me last night. Do you intend to maintain that oath?”
“Yes, sire.” Boton clenched his ringed fingers together. The metal scraped as he twisted his hands. “I would like to serve you as I served your father. Perhaps I can be of even more assistance to you since you are unfamiliar with the ways of the palace.”
A shiver ran down Byron’s back. He remembered that tone from his childhood, Boton wheedling to get what Boton wanted. “I don’t plan to be the puppet my father was.”
Boton flushed. “Are you accusing me–?”
“Don’t be so defensive, milord.” Byron smiled. He had gotten the desired reaction. “Right now I don’t know whom I can trust and whom I can’t. I’m speaking to you now, alone, because as a child I felt closer to you than I did my own parents. I want your assessment of the current situation. Tell me, what would you do if you were in my place?”
Boton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his clasped hands extended before him. He had obviously been thinking of this. “I would bury your father with full rites and then make a proclamation to the people that I am king. Then I would secure my power. I would inform the guards that they would lose their lives if they did not serve me. I would threaten the gentry with land loss if they did not support me. And I would surround myself with people that I trust, as you have done, sire.”
Byron almost shook his head. Boton was testing his power, seeing if he could manipulate the newest king. Pity. The child in Byron, the Adric part of him, had hoped that Boton had been a pawn, like the king. But Boton was as manipulative as Ewehl, and had probably helped plan Adric’s death.
“I have confined Lord Ewehl to his quarters,” Byron said. “I would like you to begin an investigation into Ewehl’s past actions. I
want a daily report on the things you have learned. You will work with the Lady Kerry’s former magician, Vonda. She’s Enos-trained and can mind-tap.”
“But, sire, I already have duties.”
“Yes, I know,” Byron extended his hand. “Give me your keys for a moment, will you?”
Boton handed Byron a ring of keys. The metal was warm from Boton’s skin. Byron turned the ring over in his hands. The documents room key was not on the ring. “Are these all of your keys?”
Boton nodded.
“That’s too bad.” Byron stared at the ring. “When I was a child, I went to see the Cache Enos. She predicted that I would be able to trust a man carrying an ornate gold key. I remembered that you carried a lot of keys, so I thought that man was you. Perhaps she meant Lord Demythos.”
Boton dug into a pocket at the side of his robe. He pulled out a thin, gold key with scrollwork on the handle. Byron took the key from Boton’s hand. “This is it,” Byron said, and pocketed the key. “Colin, will you escort Lord Boton back to his room?”
“But my keys–”
“You’ll have no further use for them.” Byron enjoyed the edge of panic in Boton’s voice. “I am relieving you of your responsibilities. The investigation of Lord Ewehl should take up all of your time.”
“But, sire, a king never carries keys.”
Byron smiled. “I take it this was one of the palace rules you were going to inform me about. I had an unorthodox upbringing, milord. I tend to break rules.”
Colin approached the stairs. “I’m to escort you, milord.”
Boton stood, glanced hesitantly at Byron, and then walked down the stairs.
“Colin, after you have accompanied Lord Boton to his chambers, stop at Lord Ewehl’s rooms and bring me his keys as well.”
“All right, Byron,” Colin said. He put his hands behind his back. “Are you ready, milord?”
Boton said nothing. He raised his chin as he left the room, but he seemed a little more crumpled, a little more tried. Byron knew that he couldn’t believe Boton’s defeated look. The man had ties that no one knew about. He was someone to watch, to guard against, at all times. As they passed Afeno, Byron saw Afeno’s hand reach out. Boton left the room and Afeno dropped another set of keys on the ground.
“Thank you, Afeno,” Byron said. Afeno left his post near the door and walked up the stairs. He gave Byron the keys. The ring was heavy and nearly solid with keys of all shapes and sizes.
“You just made an enemy, you know,” Afeno said.
Byron shook his head. “I merely confirmed one. He was an enemy a long time ago.”
A knock on the door startled them both. Afeno grabbed his sword and hurried down the stairs. The door swung open to reveal two of the guards. Byron stood, body stiff, ready to defend himself if he had to. The guards bowed.
“State your business, gentlemen,” Byron said.
The guards rose. One of them looked familiar. Byron frowned, but couldn’t place the man’s face. “Sire,” the familiar one said. “This is Cifin, and I am Ile. We felt we had to talk to you.”
Ile. Ile. He remembered Ile around the palace–and once outside, when Byron had run away from Rogren for the first time. Ile had not believed that Byron was prince. An old, old anger shuddered through him. He placed a hand on the table to steady himself.
“Lords Kensington, Dakin, and Lafa have left the grounds, sire, as has the Lady Kerry. Their servants are gone too. A handful of their retainers stayed, sire, because they said they remember you. Lord Dakin’s people especially. They said you helped them in the past.”
Ile was trembling.
“Go on,” Byron said.
“The lords plan an uprising, sire. I have heard it from a couple of different sources. They’re going back to their lands to raise an army.”
The chill at the base of Byron’s spine grew stronger. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Sire,” Ile stepped forward, head bowed. “I taught you how to hold a sword, remember? And I watched you teaching the boys and I wondered who you were. And then last night, when you told about how you survived after they left you in Anda, I kept thinking about this thin little boy who came to us, swearing he was the prince and saying he could prove it. That was you, wasn’t it?”
Byron nodded.
“I didn’t believe you, sire. If I had, I might have saved a few lives. Your father wouldn’t have died last night.”
Byron walked down the stairs. Afeno still clutched his sword, and Byron trusted the boy for protection. Byron stopped in front of Ile. The man smelled of sweat. “You don’t know that. They might have tried something else. If I had stayed here, maybe Lord Ewehl and his people really would have killed me.”
“That’s kindness, sire, but I figure I owe you.”
Byron nodded. He understood such debts
“Sire.” The other man, Cifin, spoke. Byron turned. “I came because I’m captain of the guards. I wanted to let you know that the guards are behind you, every one. We’ve seen what’s been happening here over the past decade or more, and we’ve seen you working with the peasantry. We’ll support you over Lord Kensington and we’ll help you should you have any trouble with the council.”
Byron smiled. “I’m trying to take care of the council. Ewehl’s locked up and I have just confiscated Boton’s keys. I will run this kingdom my own way.”
The captain nodded, as if Byron’s words relieved him. “Sire, if this does come to war, I don’t know how much support you will get. You will have mine, but none of the men have ever fought before. They may not last through it.”
“I know.” Byron suppressed a sigh. He had thought on that all night. Kilot had not seen war since Gerusha. Most people had no idea what kind of hardships they would experience. Byron didn’t know either. He hoped that the rumors of Kensington’s uprising were just talk. “Drill the men. Have them participate in exercises and set up teams so that they can practice. If something does happen, they will at least be mentally prepared.” And mental preparedness was half of the battle. He knew. He had not been prepared for his father’s death.
“And don’t forget,” he said. “Kensington’s people have never fought either. Whoever has the most confidence will surely have the advantage.”
The men nodded. Colin slipped back in the door and stared at the men. Afeno leaned over, explaining the situation.
“I will help you as best I can,” Byron said. He held out his hands. The men clasped them. “I value your support, and I thank you for coming to see me.”
They bowed and then left the room. Byron was about to walk back up to the dais when he saw a movement outside the door, a flash of dark hair and white clothing, and heard the rustle of shoes against stone. “Alma?”
She peeked around the corner, looking shy and coy for the first time since he had known her. She stopped in front of the door and curtsied. He walked over to her, took her hand, and helped her stand.
She smelled of jasmine and her hair shone. But she too had shadows under her eyes, and he wondered if she actually mourned for his father. Then he shook away the thought. Alma probably mourned for the lost land, the lost opportunity. “Colin, Afeno,” he said, “leave us.”
“But–”
“Leave us. If I’m dead when you return, kill the Lady Jelwra.”
Colin frowned and left the room. Afeno stopped in front of Alma. “I don’t trust you, milady. If you hurt Byron, I’ll do more than kill you. I’ll make sure that your death is very slow, very painful, and very humiliating.”
Alma didn’t flinch. She smiled a little and looked at Byron. “Such loyalty,” she said.
Afeno nodded at Byron, then followed Colin out of the chamber, closing the doors with a flourish. Byron took Alma’s hands and led her to the dais.
“You don’t know that you can trust me,” she said. “They really should have stayed.”
He sat on the bench beside the table, spurning his father’s chair, and bid her do the same. “You’re too po
wer-hungry to murder me at this stage,” he said.
“Your descriptions of me are not flattering.” She brushed him as she sat down. Her skin was soft, and he longed to hold her.
“Why did you make love to me when you thought I was a bard, Alma?”
Her eyes widened slightly. She obviously hadn’t expected him to ask that question. “I thought you were a lord.”
“And how do you feel now that you know who I am?”
“A bit confused.” She smiled. “Although now I know why you refused to let me remove your shirt.”
He ignored her attempt at humor. He had been debating this move all night. Seymour hated Alma and didn’t trust her. Neither did Afeno. But sometimes trust was not the most important thing. Power was. Alma understood power. And Byron thought he understood Alma. “You planned to become my father’s consort.”
Something like fear flickered across her face, and her body grew tense. Byron noted her reaction and finished his thought. “Would you consider being my consort instead?”
She didn’t mask her relief and he wondered at it. What had she expected? “Why?”
“You heard Lord Boton last night. I must secure my power quickly. An heir, or the promise of one, would help.”
“You have no children?”
He shook his head. She looked almost plain this morning. He preferred her this way. The flirt that had emerged around the king had angered him.
“Why me?” she asked.
“Several reasons. I have no lands, just the royal property, which is worthless–”
“I will not sign my lands over to you,” she said.
He smiled. “I didn’t ask you to. Just listen. Our heir would get the royal lands and your lands, building a nice power base for the child. It would not guarantee me power, but it would assure our child of it.
The White Mists of Power: A Novel Page 24