King's man and thief cov-2

by Christie Golden

  He turned in the saddle to look at the men who had risked so much for him already. "I'm not your king. This is not your fight. If need be I will go forward alone, and take my chances. Come with me of your own will, if you choose. But I will not order you forward, nor will I allow Damir to do so."

  Damir frowned terribly. Castyll knew he was angry, but he didn't care. He knew in his heart that was making the right decision.

  "Very well," said Damir. "I will go with you, Your Majesty."

  "And I," said the man to Damir's right. "And I," said another. In swift succession, Castyll faced six men who had pledged to fight or die with him. Tears stung his eyes; he blinked them away. "We shall not fail," he said.

  A few moments later, a man wearing Castyll's body and face ran up the cobblestone road that led to the castle walls. Castyll, safe for the moment in the shadows cast by Damir's magic, marvelled at the depth of the man's skill. The decoy looked exactly like the young king. He appeared to have no armor or weapons, though Castyll knew he was in reality well equipped with both. His heart hammered rapidly as the false Castyll hammered on the huge wooden doors.

  "Who comes?" came the challenge from above.

  The decoy tossed back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face plainly in the torchlight.

  "It is I, your king!" he cried. Castyll silently shook his head. Damir had even gotten the voice right. "I have escaped and have come to where men are still loyal to me!"

  "Majesty! We were told to expect you!"

  At once Castyll heard the grinding, mechanical sound of the portcullis being raised. A moment later, the doors of the keep were opened, and "Castyll" was surrounded by men wearing the royal livery who immediately knelt to their liege. There was no attempt to usher the "king" in, either quietly or by force.

  Castyll couldn't suppress a smile of triumph as he shot a glance at Damir. The Byrnian's face was inscrutable, but he replied, "It would appear that you were correct, Majesty."

  Taking a deep breath, Castyll squeezed his mount forward, riding into sight from the concealing shadows. "Right pleased I am to see that the men of Castle Derlian have not forgotten their liege- even though they have mistaken him!"

  The guards, confused, glanced from one "king" to the other. With an unobtrusive wave of his hand, Damir dispelled the illusion.

  "A necessary precaution in these troubled times," said Castyll by way of apology, as the man the guards had taken for their king resumed his true appearance. "You were told to expect me. Might I ask by whom?"

  "Why, by Lord Maren and Lord Kester. They had word from a source they would not name that all was not well with you and that you had to come by stealth to the castle that is your birthright," replied the man who was clearly in charge of the night's watch. Castyll nodded. Neither Maren nor Kester would have said anything that would have put Adara in any danger. "My lord Maren awaits your appearance in the main hall. He has news for you."

  "Then let us not keep my loyal seneschal waiting!" said Castyll. He would have cantered forward eagerly into the courtyard had not the five men who had so carefully guarded him up till this moment closed in around him again. Even now, it would appear, Damir was suspicious. No doubt the diplomat's caution had been wise, but surely there was nothing to fear now. Nonetheless, Castyll did not protest the extra precaution.

  Escorted by the castle guards, Castyll, Damir, and the five soldiers rode into the courtyard and dismounted. No sooner had Castyll's booted feet hit the dirt than he once again found himself in the center of the armed Byrnian men. He tried to catch Damir's eye to quietly express his annoyance, but Damir was not paying him any attention. His quick hazel eyes flitted about, searching for any threat to the young king he served.

  Most of the castle was asleep at this hour. The tramping of booted feet across the stone floor of Castle Derlian was the only sound. There were no questions for Castyll; nor should there have been. Whatever the soldiers of the keep needed to know, they would be told by their commander. Enough to know that their king had returned, that the seneschal waited for an audience with His Majesty. Castyll's joy grew with every familiar turn, every tapestry, every piece of furniture, every well-known sight and sound of his birthplace.

  The guards stopped at the entrance to the main feast hall. Their commander banged on the door and slowly the two massive doors heaved inward. The room was not fully illuminated. The candles on the massive stag-antler chandeliers were not lit, but a few torches burned in their sconces toward the end of the hall. In the dim lighting, much of the place remained shadowed, including the galleries above their heads that would, in happier times, have housed minstrels. The ornate tapestries, twenty in all, that covered the bare stone might have been plain cloth for all the detail the faint lighting revealed. Fat candles glowed on the huge center table that could seat twenty-four. Three others paralleled it, but there was no activity at these tables. At the head of the center table, his head bent over his books, sat Castyll's seneschal, Lord Maren. He glanced up, and a slow smile of delight spread across his face as he rose to greet his liege.

  Maren was an old man. He had served Shahil for twenty-odd years, and had not been young when that position had been granted to him. He had a hawk's bill of a nose, watery brown eyes, and several teeth missing. But he stood straight despite the burden of the years that sat upon him, and his mind was as sharp as a knight's blade. Castyll was very fond of Maren, and the sight of him there, waiting patiently, was the final proof the young king needed that all would, finally, be well.

  Maren was flanked by two younger men whom Castyll did not recognize, but who wore the traditional mantles of scholars. He assumed they were Maren's scribes.

  "My king!" cried Maren, moving from his chair toward the door.

  "My old friend," replied Castyll, his voice deepening with warm affection. He shouldered his way past the Byrnian guards and moved forward, his hand reaching out to grasp his seneschal's. From behind, he heard Damir's voice. "Castyll, no! It's a-"

  And then Castyll knew what it was. His smile froze on his face like a death's grin as suddenly, from the seemingly empty gallery above their heads, dozens of men sprang to life. They leaped from their places of concealment and leveled crossbows at the small group of men who pressed tighter around Castyll. The Byrnians and Castyll drew their own swords as doors flew open and more armed men charged in. Damir had moved as well, not to draw a weapon, but to begin casting a spell. Quick as lightning, one of the guards had him, yanking the diplomat's arms behind his body and pressing a blade to his throat.

  Sweat trickled down Castyll's face as he glanced frantically about, his shocked gaze encountering nothing but hard faces, swords pledged to the use of his enemy. There was no friend among any of the guards that stood here. But there was no attack-not yet. Damir's men shielded Castyll with their bodies and readied swords as the disloyal guards of Castle Derlian waited, drawing out the moment with unbearable tension.

  "Maren!" Castyll cried, brokenly. "How could you betray me?"

  The old seneschal fixed him with a smile that was not his own, yet somehow familiar. And then, before the young king's horrified, revolted gaze, Maren's features melted, reformed. His slim frame seemed to swell and bloat, and then it was Bhakir standing at the head of the table.

  "You tried such an illusion earlier. They work very well, don't they?"

  "Bhakir," breathed Castyll. His stomach clenched.

  "It is over, little king."

  The tense seconds ticked by. "How?" said Castyll at last, furious that his voice broke on the single word.

  Bhakir smiled evilly and made a gesture. A guard emerged from a corridor, holding a young woman roughly by the arm.

  Castyll's heart sank. It was Adara. She had betrayed them. But then why was she being handled so brusquely? Why was there fear on her plain features? And then, even before Bhakir began to speak, the young king guessed at the truth.

  "Castyll, I'm sorry — " Adara began. The guard struck her with his mailed fist as casua
lly as if she were a disobedient hound. Her head jerked to the side with the force of the blow. Castyll instinctively moved toward her. At once there was a clattering sound as every guard in the room moved a step toward him. Two dozen weapons were poised, ready to slay him at a word.

  "I had your homely Blesser followed." Castyll closed his eyes in pain. "I presume it was Damir whose clever idea it was to plant a suggestion in her dull little brain. I assumed you were in Braedon, Damir. How thoughtful of you to come to me. It was easy enough to determine what your plans were by whom the Blesser spoke with."

  "Maren," Castyll managed. "Kester. You killed them, didn't you, you son of a-"

  "Castyll, I am shocked that you would think such a thing." The mock horror in Bhakir's voice was an insult itself. "I'd never risk incurring public outcry like that. No, I merely reassigned them to other stations. Very distant stations, I might add. And sent some of my own men to make sure they stayed in line. And your Blesser-well, if one suggestion worked so well, then it is ease itself to give her another. She'll have no memory of this encounter by the time I'm done with her."

  Unable to help himself, Castyll glanced back at Adara. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks. She might be the earthly representative of the best-loved deity in Verold, but right now, she was utterly helpless. Just as he was.

  "And so, stone by stone, my little king's tower of dreams is toppled." Bhakir's voice was silky. He was enjoying every second of this. Castyll spat. He was too far away to reach anyone, but the gesture made him feel better.

  Bhakir's heavy brows narrowed. "You are a foolish hothead, just like your father," he growled. "You murdered him!"

  "Aye, I did. And too simple a deed it was. As simple as murdering you right now. You've made it so easy for me, Castyll. By stealing out of the Blesser's temple and conveniently disappearing, you've practically done the deed for me. Almost disappointing, I must say. I was content with things as they were. Content to pull your strings and watch you dance."

  Outrage thrummed through the young king's veins. The sticky sweat of anger popped out on his brow, beneath his arms. He had thought he hated Bhakir before, but this-it dimmed his sight and hearing, made his heart swell with an abhorrence and loathing that almost overwhelmed him. Unbeknownst to him, a low growl of sheer white-hot fury began deep in his throat. His world suddenly narrowed to one thing-the image of the fat, hateful man who had deliberately, piece by piece, destroyed Castyll's world.

  "But you have forced my hand," Bhakin continued. "Your Blesser's memory will be wiped as clean as the sand when the tide comes in. You will die within moments, by my hand. And don't think I won't relish every second of it. But first," and he smiled, that terrible, falsely jovial, despised smile, "you will watch your friend die before you."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Castyll caught a movement. It was Damir, his hands pinned painfully behind him, a sharp sword at his throat, being propelled toward the center of the room with ungentle pricks from a spear. He stumbled forward, falling and unable to catch himself with his tied hands. The sword was never more than an inch away from his neck.

  How could this be happening? Damir was a powerful wizard. Castyll had seen his mind magic — and then he realized. Bhakir also knew of Damir's skills. He would have warned his men not to trust their eyes until they had Damir secured. With his hands straining against the rope and a sword ready to pierce the soft flesh of his throat, the great Byrnian ambassador was effectively bound and gagged.

  Castyll knew what he had said to the Byrnians earlier, about dying with glory, fighting to restore his kingdom. That if there was no one here who was loyal to him, then he might as well be dead. But he had never truly believed failure to be possible. Of course Damir's message would get through; of course the men would be loyal to him.

  Bhakir. In the end, always, it was Bhakir. And now Damir would pay the dreadful price first. Damir, who had risked all to help a king of a foreign land. Damir, whose advice had been sound, who had been right all along. Damir, who foolishly believed that Castyll Derlian had magic.

  Bhakir watched the boy's face greedily. Then he nodded to the man who stood over Damir. The man lifted his sword.

  "No!"

  The word was ripped from Castyll's throat, a cry of utter despair and rage. At that moment, he seemed to hear a voice speaking from inside his head.

  I am the Second who comes, to right a dreadful wrong. Wield you the Sword of Vengeance.

  And all at once it was as if a veil had been lifted from Castyll's eyes. His blood sang and his body arched with the force of his emotions. He focused all his being on the silver blade of the sword as the guard lifted it to its height. There was a sharp crack and the guard toppled backward, screaming. The sword began to melt, turning first red, and then white hot, then losing its shape altogether as the molten steel flowed down over the man's hand and arm.

  Immediately afterward Castyll heard the whiz of dozens of crossbow bolts being unleashed. Power surging through him like a savage tide, he spun on his heels. His eyes narrowed with outrage. He saw the tiny bolts, and with a wave of his hand thought: fire. Instantaneously, every last bolt exploded into a small ball of flame, flaring and then burning to harmless cinders.

  More, thought Castyll. I want more.

  His completely unexpected use of magic had galvanized Bhakir's soldiers. The clang of steel now rang through the hall, and Castyll thought of the swords, the dozen or more swords now being used on Damir's brave noblemen who had pledged their lives to serve him.

  Sheath them!

  And each sword of the enemy suddenly writhed like a fish. They sprang loose, sheathing themselves in the wooden doors, in the stone walls, in the bodies of the men who wielded them.

  "An illusion!" Castyll heard the frantic cry dimly through the blood that thudded in his ears. With narrowed eyes, he turned his attention to Bhakir, who suddenly looked a great deal less sure of himself than he had a scant few seconds earlier.

  "No illusion," Castyll growled. "The Sword of Vengeance!"

  Castyll shoved his right hand forward, splaying the fingers hard. A ball of blue fire formed in his flat palm. It screamed past Bhakir, igniting his robes. The fat counselor cried out, futilely trying to extinguish the flames.

  No. Not enough. Not enough for what you've done.

  He stretched out both hands, clenched the fingers closed, and then yanked them back. Bhakir screamed, a high, falsetto shriek, as blood spurted from the sudden hole in his chest. There was a distance of some three yards between them.

  Grinning fiercely, Castyll squeezed Bhakir's heart to bloody pulp between his strong fingers. Now unseen hands reached and grabbed bits of the dying man. Flesh and blood flew as Castyll, delighting in the carnage, ripped Bhakir apart without even touching him.

  Take care. My Sword cuts both ways.

  The red haze of bloodlust lifted. Castyll suddenly felt bile rise in his throat. There was nothing remaining of Bhakir but a bloody pile of tiny lumps of flesh being ripped into still smaller pieces. He gasped, staggered forward a few steps, and fell to his knees. The terrible shredding ceased.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked away, glancing up wildly. Castyll calmed a little when he realized it was Damir. The older man helped the king to his feet, but said nothing. Castyll glanced about, still panting. The guards who had minutes before been ready to slaughter him stared back. Their leader had been destroyed. Their weapons had melted in their very hands. They waited, for orders from their new liege-or death.

  Castyll's throat hurt. Probably he'd been screaming his throat raw and not realizing it. He swallowed a few times, then spoke.

  "Before you were Bhakir's men, you were my father's men," he rasped. "I don't know what Bhakir used to turn you against the Derlian line. Money, or promises of power, or fear. It doesn't matter. The line has run true-I now know, and you bear witness that I have the magical skills of my father, and his father before him." He straightened, pulled away from the supporting arm of Damir.
His words rang like bells through the suddenly silent hall.

  "I am Castyll Derlian, rightful king of Mhar. You are a body without a head, men without a leader. Serve your king, or await his punishment. Choose!"

  For a long moment, no one moved. Then, one by one, the guards dropped to their knees. A wave of movement crested along the galleries as the archers dropped their weapons and made obeisance. A smile touched the youth's mouth. Gods, he was weary; so weary. And terrified by what had lain, latent and silent, in the depths of his soul to be awakened by… what? His own desperate need and desire? Castyll suspected more than that.

  I am the Second who comes, to right a dreadful wrong. Wield you the Sword of Vengeance.

  Something, someone, had granted the young king access to his magical talent. He shuddered at the thought of the strange voice. He would need to speak of this to Damir at some point. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to his friend.

  "I had no idea of the power of such magic. I didn't mean…" No. He would not start out the first moments of his true reign with a lie. He turned to gaze speculatively at the tattered pile of bloody flesh that had been Bhakir. "No. I did mean to do that. And I do not regret it."

  "Your Majesty," came a voice. It belonged to a man whom Castyll did not know, but whom he had seen often in Bhakir's presence. The man had been one of the "scribes" standing near the false Maren. He looked frightened but resolute.

  "Speak," said Castyll.

  "Bhakir has already dispatched the Mharian navy, under Zhael's command, to Byrn. They will sail in partnership with Captain Porbrough's fleet."

  "The pirates," breathed Damir.

  "Aye, sir. For the moment, there is amnesty."

  "What are their orders?" barked Castyll, striding over to the thin, ascetic man. He towered over the scribe, who shrank back, then continued in a voice that shook.