Page 35 of Revealing Fate

Now, he finally had it, and it was useless. Tavene had returned and couldn’t give him a godsdamned clue.

Domitan tossed back another swallow of mezahl, the smoky liquor carving a fiery path to his chest.

A servant entered the room. “Pardon, Your Majesty.”

He didn’t look up. “What.”

The servant trembled. Domitan could sense the gutless vibrations from across the room. “General Corstow is asking to speak with you, my king.”

Domitan’s head snapped up. “Show him in, you blundering fool!”

The servant nearly tripped over himself to comply.

Markain Corstow strode into the room a moment later, ushering a stooped old man leaning heavily on an alabaster cane.

Domitan stood, bracing both palms on the desk in front of him. “Corstow, so help me, you had better have some fucking answers. Is she awake?”

General Corstow bowed deeply at the waist. “Tavene remains unconscious, my king. Her state has not changed.”

Domitan blew hot breath through flared nostrils.

“I do have something else, though.” Corstow urged the old man forward.

Domitan stalked around the desk. The old man was bald, long white eyebrows nearly obscuring what remaining vision he possessed. An ocean of wrinkled skin drowned his features. “Who is this?”

The ancient bowed. Only Corstow’s grip kept him from tumbling forward. “Greeve, Your Eminence. I am a records keeper in the royal archives.” The old man’s s’s came out as a hiss between missing teeth.

Domitan crossed his arms, temples pounding. “And what use have I for a petrified records keeper?”

The old man produced a worn parchment from beneath his voluminous robes. He extended a withered arm.

“The dagger that killed your soldier had brethren, majesty,” Greeve explained. “Many others of its like have been crafted going back decades. A smithing marvel.”

Domitan’s eyes lifted from where they scanned the record. “You found their maker?”

“Yesss,” said Greeve.

“Where is he?” Domitan demanded. “Here?”

“I’m afraid not, sire,” said General Corstow. “This is just a record. An old one, at that. The artisan who originally crafted these blades is dead.”

Domitan shoved the weathered parchment into Greeve’s chest. “That doesn’t fucking help me,” he snarled.

Greeve curled protectively around the antique record. “But sssire, this givesss us some direction,” he insisted. “These recordsss were familial. The artisan would have passed the information to his successor.”

“And who is the bloody successor?” Domitan queried. “Is he also dead?”

Corstow glanced sidelong at Greeve. “She, majesty,” he said. “And yes, she is also dead.”

Domitan’s headache threatened to split his skull. “Who, Corstow? Give me a name, damn you! And then tell me who killed her, so I can hang him for the inconvenience!”

General Corstow hesitated, square jaw clenching. “Her name was Meridia Albright, sire. The last Bladesinger of Ilistaar.”

Domitan’s temper boiled over as the name stuck between them like blood clotting in a wound bed.

“And sixteen years ago, I killed her,” Corstow finished. “By your command.”

Chapter 15