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Raul shook his head. He could say nothing to defend himself, or anyone in his trust. If they used magic to wrest a confession from his mouth, he might accidentally betray his friends, but until then, he would keep silent.
“You say nothing. You admit it.”
Raul shrugged.
“Your men. Dead. Ah. That … bothers you.”
Raul lifted his glance to meet Khandarr’s. Tried to read the truth from that bizarre and twisted face. The man could be lying. Or he told the truth and had killed Ault and the rest, purely to punish Raul. Both possibilities were true to the man’s nature.
“Lies. Truth. Doesn’t matter,” Khandarr said. “Tomorrow you die. King’s orders.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARKUS KHANDARR LIMPED down the corridor of the prison quadrant. His feet thumped painfully against the stones, sending echoes ahead and behind. Sixty paces to the stairwell. Twenty steps up to the next landing, and another twenty until he gained the palace itself, never mind how many more steps and stairs lay between there and his quarters. He would sleep badly tonight, even with a heavy dose of wine and herbs. Magic might soothe his aches, but it never lasted as long as he liked.
He almost wished he had put Kosenmark in one of the upper cells. Almost.
Six years. He has not changed. Still a fucking arrogant bastard—
Khandarr’s left foot, dragging, caught the edge between two uneven stones. He stumbled, flailed, and lost hold of his cane. One of the guards caught his arm, then almost immediately let go when Khandarr struck him with a fist. “I am … not … I…”
His tongue tangled itself around the words. Worse than that stuttering fool of Kosenmark’s. No, not a fool. Clever and sly. Damn him, damn them all, and damn that bitch from Morennioù for ruining his body. He wanted to thrust all these guards and minions away and shut himself in the dark and quiet of his rooms. But he could not, so perforce he must allow this half-wit to drag him to his feet. His curses subsided to a low hiss as he regained his balance.
“You did well,” he said slowly as the man handed him his cane.
“Shall I fetch a chair?” the guard asked.
“No. I will walk.”
He motioned for the man to take the lead. The other two guards arranged themselves on either side. Khandarr stared ahead, down the long corridor with its rows of empty cells, the torches sending a ruddy glare over the stone walls and worn tiles, to the dim outline of the stairwell’s entry. Once more he calculated the number of steps to the end of his day. Drew a breath and thumped his cane against the floor.
“We go,” he said.
The brief pause had invigorated him. He stumped at a faster pace, each footfall steady and firm, only using the cane at long intervals. True, the steps cost as much as before. He had to bite his tongue against the agony in his limbs. He would pay the cost for this display later, with drugs and magic.
Thump, crack, thump, thump.
He entered the stairwell. Paused once more, eyes closed, before he started his ascent.
Thump. Thump and crack and thump again. The footfalls came slower now. The cane used more frequently. Arrogant. That was the word for Raul Kosenmark. A useful quality in Duenne’s Court. But Kosenmark’s arrogance would not save the bastard from execution. Thump. Baerne’s beloved pet. Thump, pause, thump.
He had hated Raul Kosenmark from the first. The boy had been scarcely fourteen and newly gelded when he came to court. Beautiful and wild and gifted with sharp-edged wit. Oh, but troubled as well. He might have ruined himself with drink, the way Baerne’s son had, but then Fara of Hanau had collected the boy, as she had collected so many other bright young men and women, and tutored Raul Kosenmark in court and politics. With her guidance, Kosenmark had soared to the grand summit of influence and power.
All that had changed with Baerne’s death. Khandarr remembered the month after the funeral rites. Remembered Armand suddenly freed from his grandfather’s shadow and nearly incapacitated with authority. He had not hesitated about one matter, though. Very soon after he took the crown, Armand dismissed all his grandfather’s senior councillors. He would name his own, he declared. The first mark of the new king and a new reign.
Khandarr gained the next landing. There he leaned on his cane, and breathed heavily. All three guards hovered around him. He could sense their urge to help, and their terror at misreading his wishes. He grinned. The muscles of his face twitched. The flesh hung useless, dead. Two years, the physician had said, until he regained full use of his arms and legs. The face might never recover.
Enough self-pity. He dragged himself up the next set of stairs, step by stone step, still plagued by memories of Raul Kosenmark. That last morning, Khandarr had summoned the young fool to his private suite and offered him a compromise. Vow your allegiance to the king and me, and you will keep your position. You might even regain your manhood.
Kosenmark had refused, simply and without any excuses.
Later, Armand made it exquisitely clear how much he disliked that Khandarr had made such an offer. A humiliation all around.
The main floor gained at last. Khandarr allowed himself another brief respite. His legs shook. He badly wanted his wine and herbs. And he would send for the physician to knead his muscles. If that failed, he might summon one of the girls kept in service for pleasure. He found that sexual release often served better than medicine or magic.
He swung his body around to face his next goal—the stairs leading to the private residence wing. It took all his self-control to lift one leg, plant it firmly, then drag the other forward. Momentum was the key. He stumped and staggered toward the stairs, little caring what the guards thought by now.
Eight steps from his next goal, he glimpsed a shadow approaching rapidly from a side corridor. Khandarr swung around, reeling, his lips already forming the words to summon magic, when he recognized Armand’s senior runner.
