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The runner knelt before Khandarr. “My lord. The king wishes your presence at once.”
He presented an oversized ring set with emeralds and pearls around an enormous central diamond. An ugly thing, Armand called it. As ugly as his grandfather, who had commissioned the object early in his reign. For all Armand’s bitter mockery, he had kept the ring, saying tradition had its uses. Even so, he had not made use of it until today.
Khandarr gripped his cane with both hands and muttered a curse under his breath. He recognized an imperial summons when he heard it. “Of course. Let his majesty know I come at once.”
“Do you wish a chair?”
What Markus Khandarr wished was to snarl and refuse, but there were too many witnesses, all of them, he suspected, ready to report any sign of disrespect to the king. A year ago, Khandarr would have dismissed their accusations easily. A year ago, Armand would have believed him. Too much had changed since then. Khandarr nodded and offered his thanks to the runner.
The runner signaled. The chair and its six carriers appeared at once. They brought him swiftly and smoothly to a nondescript corridor on the ground floor, tucked between audience chambers and the imperial library. They stopped before an equally nondescript door, guarded by six large men in plain uniforms. Only a single torch illuminated the area.
Khandarr felt the first spurt of true panic then. Baerne had favored this room, saying it allowed him to concentrate on the work itself, and not the grandeur of the office. After he took the throne, Armand had avoided the wing, and especially these rooms, saying he wanted a complete break with all that his grandfather represented.
That makes two things, Khandarr thought. The ring and Baer
ne’s office.
The carriers lowered the chair, and the guards assisted Lord Khandarr to stand. Khandarr wrapped his fingers around the head of his cane. It felt sturdy in his grip. He rapped the stick onto the tiles, dragged a foot forward. Not one of the guards stirred as he passed the threshold.
Two more guards waited just inside. Khandarr barely acknowledged them. His whole attention was on achieving the king’s presence as swiftly as his body allowed. He stumped and limped and lurched through the next room, into the king’s private office.
It was then he understood the reason for the king’s summons at this hour.
Armand sat behind the desk once used by his grandfather. A few sheets of parchment lay before him, several of them close-written in the style of reports. A leather-bound volume was propped open as though for reference, and others were stacked to either side. Off in one corner stood an enormous sand-clock constructed of priceless metals, the frame ornamented with rubies, the glass gleaming silver as it turned over to mark the next hour.
Facing him was Duke Alvaro Kosenmark. His manner was tense, his back straight and his chin lifted, as though he stood at attention. A military man, Khandarr remembered. The duke had served on the frontier with some honor, and there were rumors he continued to command a small army in Valentain. Ostensibly, the army served to hunt and contain brigands and pirates along the province’s long border, but other reports said this man and his family kept themselves ready for warfare within the kingdom.
He has come about his son.
“Your Majesty,” he said. Then to the duke, “Your Grace.”
“You have arrested my elder son and heir,” Duke Kosenmark said.
“For treason—”
“The guards tell me you plan to execute him tomorrow.”
Khandarr glanced toward Armand. The king did not acknowledge his presence. He sat with hooded eyes, his hands resting lightly on the desk before him. His air was utterly contained, not like his usual impassioned self. An unseen breeze caused the lamplight to flicker over Armand’s face, lending it an age he had not yet attained.
He is like his grandfather. I never expected this. I ought to have.
“We have … evidence,” he said to the duke. “Crimes—”
“Then you will not object to presenting that evidence before the council.”
“We … We … do not need—”
Armand lifted a hand. Khandarr broke off at once. He wished he had been present for the start of this conversation. The duke must have waited until Khandarr was otherwise occupied before he requested this interview with the king. His spies would be good ones, cultivated through long decades at court. A steady throbbing, the result of standing and walking far beyond his endurance, broke through his calculations. He glanced around the room, but there were no other chairs. So. Armand played his own cruel games tonight.
Meanwhile, Armand laid one hand against the other. The gesture resembled those found in the ancient portraits of priest-kings. “It is not the council but the king who decides your son’s fate,” he said mildly.
The duke nodded. “True. But there is the matter of trust. We trust you to guard the kingdom’s welfare, from the least of your subjects to those with riches and authority of their own. If your subjects perceive that your rule has become arbitrary, if you punish without just cause, you break that trust.”
“You threaten me?” Armand asked, still in that soft uninflected voice.
“I merely remind you of the responsibility of your kingship.”
“Very pretty words,” Armand said. “But if we would speak the truth, you came to demand the release of your son.”
