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What he said made no difference. It was as though Markus were deaf to his words. Or that he used these relentless questions to batter at Raul, because true weapons had been denied him. The interrogation was nothing, Raul told himself. He suffered nothing except a few bruises, and after an hour Khandarr stalked away, but each session left Raul sweating and limp.
Enough. He launched himself into a new set of drill patterns, skewering his imaginary opponent. With each thrust, he cursed himself. For hiding in Tiralien three years while Markus Khandarr terrorized court and kingdom. For sending Dedrick to Duenne instead of confronting Armand himself and arguing openly for peace. He was an arrogant coward, and if the gods did not grant him the opportunity to make things right in this life—
He broke off at a familiar thump, thump, thump from down the corridor. Markus. Raul sucked in a breath. The hour was later than he had guessed.
The thumping grew louder, more irregular. Raul wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt hem. As the door opened, he straightened up to face his enemy.
Khandarr stumped inside. He was alone, without even the usual guard. Not that he needed one. The chains and magic were enough.
He gestured. Magic flung Raul against the wall, arms and legs pinned against
the stone. He hated this, hated how the man exposed him. He had to swallow several times to keep from spewing onto the ground. He managed it, just, but his belly shivered with the effort.
“Confess,” Khandarr said. “Confess to treason.”
“Markus, I cannot—”
“Confess. Tell the truth. All of it.”
Ah, there Markus had him.
The truth. The truth is that I wanted influence. I wanted to guide the king and his kingdom. I believed myself right. I still believe so. If that is treason, then I am a traitor.
He closed his eyes and hung from the magic bonds. He had no more courage to offer up. If Armand wished to execute him, he would.
He heard the shuffle of feet over stone as Markus approached. A hand brushed over his forehead, pushing the damp hair back. Was he gloating?
“The king believes you guilty.”
“Then why hasn’t he executed me? Why haven’t you?”
The hand paused in mid-caress. “I will. Now if you wish.”
The magic tightened around Raul’s throat. A weight pressed against his chest, and the air turned dark. Above the roaring in his ears, he heard a voice rap out a sharp command.
“Stop.”
Abruptly, the magic vanished. Raul dropped to his hands and knees. Blood pulsed at his temples. He had the vague impression of voices arguing over him. One pair of boots—Khandarr’s—retreated while another pair took its place. The newcomer bent down and wiped his face with a cloth. Other boots gathered around. He was lifted up to sitting.
His vision was blurred, but he distinctly recognized his sister Heloïse, next to his father. Impossible. He had last seen her eight years ago, a skinny girl who declared she would have nothing to do with him or politics. She was more right than she knew. He let his eyelids sink shut and shuddered as the magic leaked away.
A hand jostled his shoulder. “Raul. Wake up.”
His father crouched next to him. Two attendants dressed in the Kosenmark livery hovered in the background, but there was no sign of Heloïse. Perhaps he had imagined his sister. Perhaps he was still lost in a fantasy conjured up by Markus Khandarr.
His father shook his shoulder again. “Listen,” he said intently. “The king has granted me permission to speak with you. But only for one hour.”
He pressed a flask to Raul’s mouth. Wine, unwatered.
“You want me drunk?” Raul said. His voice came out as a hoarse high whisper.
“Hardly. That was autumn wine. Take another swallow and we can talk.”
Raul obediently gulped down another mouthful of the sweet wine. It softened the constant ache he had not realized enveloped him. His head cleared and he could pay proper attention now.
“Tell me who died,” he said. “I need to know that first.”
His father glanced upward, then to either side.
