Adran nodded approval. “This should be sufficient.”
“Then I’ll show you to the rooms inside the palace.”
Adran set soldiers to settling in to the barracks. Then he, Ian and Cadmar followed Yiloch and Caplin out. A few Caithin soldiers resumed sparring while they walked past. Yiloch’s hand drifted absently to the hilt of his sword.
“Lord Caplin, you wear your sword quite comfortably. If you’re willing, perhaps we could cross swords sometime during our stay.”
Caplin flashed him an enthusiastic grin. “I would be. I’m curious how your styles differ from ours.”
“Be careful, rarely a day goes by that he doesn’t practice,” Adran warned good-naturedly, also sinking into the comfort of Caplin’s friendly manner.
Caplin chuckled. “Remember, killing the king’s nephew is bad for relations.”
Yiloch tapped his sword hilt. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
After showing them to the opulent second floor sitting area and adjacent rooms they would be using during their stay, Caplin excused himself to arrange an audience with the king. By the time he returned, they had settled and were lounging in chairs on the attached veranda overlooking a courtyard garden, all except Cadmar who stood tapping his fingers on the railing. The dark warrior claimed to be uncomfortable with so much comfort.
“King Jerrin is concluding a land dispute between two lords,” Caplin announced. “I don’t know why he bothers. Those two find a new reason to fight every few months. I think they should be stripped of their titles and put to work cleaning back alleys. Teach them both some humility.”
“A sound judgment. My father would sell them off as slaves.” Yiloch let bitterness come through this time to see how Caplin would react.
“There are always those driven more by riches than reason.” Cautious and tactful.
“As there always will be.”
“Come. I’ll show you to the throne room.”
They followed Caplin through the palace to a set of imposing wood and iron doors flanked by two guards. The guards bowed and pulled the doors open. At the far end of a room similar in size to the council hall in Yiloch’s stronghold, but much darker, a raised dais supported a throne flanked by two guards bristling with weaponry. The gilded, gem encrusted throne was the first truly gaudy thing he had seen in the palace other than the man sitting on it.
King Jerrin was heavyset, a thick head of graying brown hair and full beard hiding most of his face, giving the impression of a dying bush set atop the fur trimmed red velvet robes he wore. Yiloch counted no less than three heavy rings per hand and two gold, jeweled amulets around his neck. He cringed at the excess as he and his accompaniment bowed before the throne.
When Yiloch straightened, King Jerrin was grinning, his dark eyes peering out at them over a thick nose. With that simple expression, his entire bearing morphed from arrogant and excessive to merry, if perhaps a bit eccentric.
Jerrin stood, coming down from the dais to greet them. Any intimidation he might have possessed through rank and bulk vanished behind a good-natured grin. The king clasped Yiloch’s hand as a warrior might greet his equal in battle and Yiloch took note of the firmness of the sovereign’s grip. A low sigh from Caplin forced him to suck back a grin.
“Prince Yiloch,” the king greeted. “It’s an honor. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
Yiloch dared a touch of humor. “None of it good, I’m sure.”
“Not a bit.” The king chuckled and turned to Cadmar. His eyes lit up like a child discovering a new toy. “And who is this rather imposing gentleman.”
“Cadmar is a personal guard,” Yiloch answered.
The king grasped Cadmar’s hand as well, despite the big man’s somewhat mystified expression.
“You are nearly as striking a figure as your prince, good sir. It is my pleasure to welcome you here.”
The king greeted Adran and then Ian who turned a light shade of green when the jovial monarch took his hand. This unconventional man wasn’t what Yiloch expected. He would have preferred someone more kingly, but it could be much worse.
“I thank you for the wine, Prince Yiloch. Emperor Rylan cut our imports and local varieties are a poor substitute. I would have liked my wife and son to meet you. Alas, her sister is ill and they have gone to her manor in Innid to be with her.”
“So does life continue regardless of our plans.”
“Indeed,” the king agreed. “Come, let us meet in the council room where we can all sit.”
An attendant stepped out from the shadows of a corner and trotted to one side of the room, opening a door into round room with a massive circular table consuming most of the space. This room had more windows set high in the walls, making it brighter than the throne room and illuminating numerous maps hung upon the walls. Yiloch longed to examine them.
“This is the High Council’s meeting room,” Caplin offered.
Ian and Cadmar stood back from the table, separating themselves from the discussion as appropriate to their stations. The king’s guardsmen positioned themselves around the room. Yiloch and Adran took offered seats several chairs to the king’s right and Caplin sat across from them.
The king’s expression turned grave when the door clicked shut. “As I’m sure you are aware, Emperor Rylan has violated nearly every condition of our trade agreement over the last few years. I believe that agreement has outlived its usefulness. However, as you currently have no empire, I’d venture you’re looking to negotiate more than a trade agreement.”
“I believe my father has outlived his usefulness,” Yiloch said, using the king’s phrasing and emphasizing the sentiment with a healthy dose of disgust. “I seek a military alliance to overthrow him. Specifically, I want naval support to provide distraction when I move my army in on the landward side. I also want healers to support my army.” Both Caplin and the king stiffened in their seats at the mention of healers. That subject would require careful negotiation. “There will be benefits for Caithin, of course. Once the empire is mine, I will open trade again, removing restrictions on your exports as well as those now blocking import of most Lyran goods, including our wine.”
“What do you believe are your chances of success,” Caplin asked, offering a quick look of apology to the king for speaking out.
Yiloch waited for Jerrin’s nod before answering. “Rylan has lost support of more than half the noble families in Lyra. Many of those families have agreed to send troops in support of my efforts. Others have at least consented to staying out of the fight. With your support, we would be certain to win.” Yiloch held back the fact that he had assistance inside Yiroth for the sake of protecting Lyric. Jerrin could still choose to take this information to Rylan as a bargaining chip.
“I am interested in discussing this further, Prince Yiloch, but I must ask, what are your intentions regarding the slave trade? Caithin aristocracy is accustomed to their amenities.” The king tapped his fingers on the table as he spoke.
Adran, ever hopeful, nudged Yiloch’s foot under the table, but trying to stop the slave trade now could kill the alliance.
“There will always be criminals, your highness, and a need to control the people.”
The king’s smile returned. “Prince Yiloch, I believe we’re going to work well together.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dalce gripped the edge of the embrasure and stared out beyond the wall. The stone was course, grinding into his flesh, not smoothed over with creation as it was on the palace walls in Yiroth. Reality. It pressed harsh and unyielding into his skin, reminding him of a simpler time and the circumstances that brought him to this moment. He had made his choices and he didn’t regret them. Now his journey appeared to be rushing to its end.
Imperial soldiers gathered outside the rear gate of the stronghold. They were assembling around the front gate as well. The total force was perhaps two hundred strong and he counted no less than ten wearing no weapons. Those were dedicated creators or ad
epts, which meant they would soon be inside the walls.
Upon receiving word of the troop Yiloch’s party encountered, Dalce sent out scouts to search for other signs of imperial activity in the area. Thanks to one of those scouts, they had some warning of the coming attack. The small force residing at the stronghold retreated to a sheltered valley higher in the mountains, evidence of their passing obscured by Ferin and the few other adepts in residence. They took horses and arms with them. Better to hide today and be ready to fight when Yiloch needed them.
Dalce stayed behind with the steward, Galen, to destroy evidence of their plans and their numbers before imperial soldiers arrived. An unfortunate, but necessary process that took more time than they had.
Outside the rear gate a familiar figure with the pale skin and fine boned features of pure Lyran lineage, contrasted by hair and eyes blacker than obsidian, rode up through the middle of the imperial ranks. Dalce raised his lip in a silent snarl.
When he left Yiroth, Myac had been gaining favor and influence with Emperor Rylan through his substantial power and growing skill. Judging from the way soldiers parted before him, he had continued that climb. Any hope of making it out alive fled with Myac’s arrival.
Dalce started down the staircase, his steps heavy.
He loved the young prince. Not the way Adran did. Not with passion or desire, but complete dedication. He’d served the emperor and hated the man for the callous way he used his sons and disrespected his people. For all their similarities, Yiloch was not his father. The prince treated his officers with respect and would never send his soldiers needlessly to their deaths. His regard for peasantry might be less than ideal. They weren’t much more than herd beasts to Yiloch, but he recognized his need of them and Dalce believed he would be a better shepherd to them than Emperor Rylan had ever been.
If things went as planned, Yiloch’s retinue should be in Demin now. Another man might resent facing this attack in the prince’s stead, but Dalce didn’t. The proud prince might have hesitated at abandoning the stronghold to his father’s forces had he known they were coming. Against this force, limited as their defenses were, that could have been the end of their hopes. He chose to stay behind with Galen to safeguard the prince’s chances for victory and avoid another dire setback. He was the only one he trusted to do what was necessary now.
He found Galen in Yiloch’s study, seated behind the prince’s ransacked desk scanning a document. A deep iron pot sat on the floor, papers burning within it. He looked up when Dalce entered and tossed the document into the fire, watching the flames begin to consume it.
“Are we done,” Dalce asked.
Galen nodded. “That was the last. Everything has been destroyed. There’s nothing for them to find.”
“Good. They’re here.”
“I know.”
If only they’d had more time. An hour more. But such thoughts served no purpose. “There is still evidence we must destroy.”
Galen swallowed hard. “I know.”
Though fear filled Galen’s eyes, his voice held complete acceptance of his fate. Dalce was impressed. For a steward, untrained in war, he showed remarkable courage. Perhaps the man could have done this alone, but it was a lot to ask of a man alone.
When your enemy had powerful adepts at their disposal and capture became inevitable, there were only two ways to avoid betrayal; true ignorance or death. For the two of them, only one of those options remained. Dalce drew his sword and walked around the desk. Galen sat rigid when Dalce placed a hand on his shoulder. He drew the sword back, aiming it at the steward’s chest. Galen held his eyes, refusing to look at the blade.
“Peace, good sir,” Dalce said.
“Peace,” Galen echoed, the tremor in his voice betraying fear.
Dalce appreciated his own strength now more than ever. The steward had earned a quick death. With one mighty thrust, he sent the weapon into Galen’s chest and out through his back, pinning him to the chair. Blood flowed from the wound, running from his mouth as he choked, his jaw working as if trying to form words. In seconds, the pain and terror in his pale eyes faded to lifeless emptiness.
Dalce drew the dagger from his belt and sat in the chair across from Galen. He picked up the wine the steward had been drinking and raised the cup in tribute to the other man before taking a last swallow. Setting the cup down, he held the wine in his mouth, savoring it before letting it slide down his throat. The will to finish this was harder to find than he expected, but it was there, meshed deep within his love for his prince, growing stronger the more he thought about Yiloch and the dream they all shared.
The dagger was sharp with a good point and a wide base. He opened his shirt and positioned the blade under his sternum. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped both hands around the hilt and shoved up into his chest with all his might. His arms jerked, tearing the blade back out and allowing blood to drain faster. The agony, excruciating though it was, paled before the certainty that he would never betray his prince.
*
Myac sat his mount and manipulated ascard in the heavy iron and wood gate, creating flaws throughout the structure. Then he created an invisible barrier over the outside of the gate and shoved. The gate burst inward, throwing splintered wood and shards of iron throughout the courtyard. His horse flinched when the gate burst, but remained in its place while several others attempted to wheel about and flee. Myac patted the animal’s neck and urged it forward with the first line of soldiers, disappointed, but not surprised that no one had been in the courtyard when the door burst. More soldiers flooded in and dismounted, flowing in units to the barracks, stables, and other outbuildings.
Myac dismounted and walked up the steps to the rear doors of the stronghold. For the amusement of it, he used the ascard to throw open the large double doors. Imperial soldiers streamed in ahead of him, moving with weapons held ready.
Stretching ascard energy through the stronghold and grounds, he searched for signs of life and encountered an anxious presence directly behind him. He glanced over a shoulder at the young soldier, Leryc, who stood staring into the stronghold. Leryc trained extensively with Yiloch before the prince’s banishment, but he wouldn’t talk to Myac about that time. The smooth, pale brow under a head of light blond hair furrowed with worry. The concern in his pale gold eyes disagreed with the permanent smirk caused by a scar that lifted one corner of his mouth.
Was the tension Myac sensed in the youth from fear of him or did he also fear the wrath of his old mentor? Did he still feel some loyalty to the prince and fear an encounter that would test that? He was difficult to read.
Myac gestured for the youth to follow him, sensing the chill of dread through his ascard ability when Leryc moved to comply. The youth earned a glimmer of respect for not allowing his emotions to show.
The cold colors Lyran nobility favored appeared sparingly in the scanty furnishings. In the palace, delicate silver and created crystal ornamentation enhanced those icy blues and grays. Here, the prince hadn’t wasted effort in such frivolity. It wasn’t opulent, like the Imperial palace, but it did show an elegant trace of that influence in every room layered over a rugged and functional base. The estranged prince might be practical, but he was still royalty.
Appreciation emanated from Leryc and Myac glanced over his shoulder again. The youth ran his fingers over a simple, elegant table pushed up against the wall. The hint of a smile balanced out his expression, bringing out the Lyran beauty of his pure blood. His build was slight, better suited to his pretty violet eyes, but otherwise he was the exact image of his father, Rylan’s captain of the guard.
His uncle had deserted with Yiloch only to meet his death when he arrived in the prison with the prince. Where did Leryc’s loyalties lie?
Noticing Myac’s scrutinizing gaze, Leryc pulled his hand back.
A soldier came jogging towards them. “Adept Myac.”
“What is it?”
“I think you should see this.”
Myac nodded,
gesturing again for Leryc to follow as the soldier led them down a side hall. They entered a study, decorated most recently with the blood of the two men within. One sat pinned to a chair with a sword through his chest. The other lay face down on the floor. The soldier rolled him over with one foot. A dagger lay on the floor beneath the dead man. He had a hole punched deep in his chest. The man in the chair was unfamiliar, but the one on the floor, a satisfied smile frozen on his still warm lips, was a ranking defector from the emperor’s army.
A choking behind him preceded the sound of retching and the unwelcome sour aroma of vomit. He glared back at Leryc who stood straight again, his eyes riveted on Dalce with unmistakable recognition while he wiped the back of one hand across his mouth. The young soldier’s pale skin had a slight greenish cast to it and his stark anguish pierced Myac’s extended ability.
“You’re supposed to be a soldier,” Myac snapped. Anger swelled along with disappointment. There would be no putting the prince in his place, not today.
He knelt by the man on the floor and turned his head to get a better look at his expression. A smile?
Captain Dalce, were you actually happy to die for him?
How did such a man inspire that kind of loyalty? Perhaps he had underestimated the threat Yiloch posed. If he held this much sway over his followers, getting him off the throne would be complicated. Somehow, he had to keep the prince from getting that far—but how, with a partially mad emperor whose influence weakened with every passing day? Even if he controlled Emperor Rylan, he didn’t know enough to wage war from behind the throne.
Myac set his jaw. He would find a way.
He stood and turned to the soldier. “We’ll find nothing here. They knew we were coming. Get someone to help take these bodies out back. I want to leave a message in case someone returns.”
“Yes, my lord.” The soldier hurried off.
Myac walked to the dead man pinned in the chair. “I imagine this fine blade was yours, Dalce.”
He knew he couldn’t pull the blade out with sheer strength. The physical power and weapon skill of the man who had put it there were well beyond his own. Using ascard to push away fabric, flesh, and bone around the blade, he eased it out. In his life, he had handled a sword only a few times. He had no need for weapons of steel. The weapon hung heavy and awkward in his grasp, but he didn’t intend to hold on to it for long.
Dissident (Forbidden Things Book 1) Page 16