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A clumsy excuse. Would that make a difference?
He urged his company forward. They threaded their way from the riverside square, down the royal avenue traversed by kings on their coronation day, into the maze bordering the palace. Statues of the rulers of Erythandra, of Lir and Toc, of their older manifestations from aeons past, lined the way.
Traffic clogged all the streets. Raul heard more shouts of Kosenmark and Valentain, less frequently, Damn the king’s weasel. He could imagine someone wishing for peace, for the end of Markus Khandarr’s rule of court and king, but he could not imagine Markus himself constructing such an obvious set of theatrics as this. Unless logic doesn’t matter, and he only wants an excuse.
“Benedikt,” he said. “Get away, as fast as you can.”
“But my lord—”
“Do as I say. Go to my father at once and tell him what happened here. Tell him to speak to his factions. Send word to Tiralien—”
He had no time to say more. A battalion of soldiers burst through the crowds. Ault swore and gave the signal to scatter. Raul rode forward to meet the nearest rider.
“My lord!” shouted one. “My Lord Kosenmark!”
Raul gripped his sword tight. “That would be me. What do you require?”
“Nothing but your cooperation.”
“You have that already. Take me to see our king.”
They had him surrounded. He tried to see if Ault and the rest had escaped, but the crowds made it impossible to see. He dismounted, handed over his sword and all his other weapons. It was laughable—two dozen guards to take one man. However, he made no protest when they insisted on searching his boots and trousers; even the mage-soldiers examined him for spells and other magical traps.
The guards blindfolded and gagged him. Raul stiffened, forced himself to breathe easily as they covered his face with a hood. Two soldiers grabbed him by the arms; another prodded him in the back and ordered him to march. It was difficult to keep his footing, more difficult to submit to their rough handling as they hustled him away from the square and through a doorway. Others caught hold of his arms and half dragged him down two flights of stairs, and into a dank dark cell, where they locked him away without candle or fire.
* * *
ONCE, YEARS AGO, Baerne of Angersee had insisted that all his councillors spend a day in prison. To make the test true, they would remain anonymous. He claimed the experience would teach them empathy toward those they ruled, innocent and guilty alike. As far as Raul knew, however, Armand of Angersee had never undergone such an experience.
It would do him good, Raul thought savagely.
They had bound him with iron shackles and chains at his wrists and ankles, then removed the gag and hood. He swayed to his feet and shuffled forward from one end of the cell to the other. Slowly he measured his new cell. Ten by ten feet. At the upper reach of his fingertips, he discovered a small round opening with faint sunlight pouring down from above. When he tilted up his face, a wisp of air tickled his forehead. An air shaft, then. Useless for escape, but at least he no longer felt as though he would suffocate underground.
Gradually the pale light in the airshaft faded to dark. Another two bells rang before they delivered to him a m
eal of bread and cheese. When it came, Raul tore into the bread and cheese, gulped down the water, and when the guard offered him wine for a price, he took it.
Now, three hours later by the count of bells, Raul huddled in the corner of his cell, his head resting on his arms. He wished he knew if Ault and the other had won free. He wished he could send word to his father. Ah, his father. His heartbeat caught in an imaginary stitch. He remembered the days leading up to his castration, how his mother and father had argued, how his cousin, his love, had suddenly vanished from his life. His brother had attempted once or twice to dissuade Raul, without any success except a black eye. His sisters …
He sighed at the memory of Heloïse’s last visit. She was eleven, three years younger than he, and in many ways older. You are an idiot, she hissed. I will never forgive you.
Moonlight trickled down the airshaft. The scent of prison, of sweat and urine, permeated the air. He wondered if Markou and Soubz had reached his father’s household. Most likely. If Khandarr had expected him beforehand, the soldiers at the city gates would have taken him prisoner at once.
The echo of footsteps broke the silence. Raul went still and listened. Three marched in regular formation. A fourth stumbled along at a halting pace.
The doors opened and lamplight streamed in.
Lord Markus Khandarr limped across the threshold. Raul surged to his feet. At once the air crackled. A wall of cold fire roared up between them. Raul checked himself a hairsbreadth from the flames. When he drew back a step, the fire subsided, but he sensed its presence lurking just beyond the ordinary world. Breathing heavily, he stared at Khandarr.
A stranger’s face stared back, aged and ruined, the iron gray hair bleached entirely white, the features distorted and misshapen, one half drooping, the other drawn back unnaturally tight. In the cold dead light of the mage fire, he seemed more like a monster from beyond the void than a man.
Khandarr’s mouth twitched open. The muscles along his throat and jaw rippled with effort. “Treason,” he said. “I know. Your letters to Károví. I know. You met with Karasek.”
His speech was slurred, interrupted with false stops, a faint and flawed echo of Raul’s memories of the man, two short years before, when they had last faced each other in Lord Vieth’s palace. Raul covered his reaction with a mask. He remembered now. Valara Baussay had spoken of a confrontation. It was like her to understate the matter.
“I am no traitor,” he said.
“What you did. Says you are.”
