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greater than one blow could explain, he was certain of that. And yet I do not remember …
Time, time lost, without the excuse of magic. He could not think what that might portend. His legs trembled and the roaring in his ears grew louder. Khandarr closed his eyes and breathed steadily, stubbornly, insistently, until he had regained control of his traitorous body. He wiped the blood from his staff clean with his sleeve and stumped around the chair to where Armand lay. He adjusted his grip on the stick’s round head and painfully lowered himself to his knees. His heart shuddered with the effort. He needed another moment to recover before he could make a proper examination.
Oh. No, no, no …
Now he could see the destruction clearly. The skull cracked and crumpled into itself. Blood seeping from eyes and ears. More blood, dark and viscous, pooled beneath Armand’s cheek. Markus Khandarr reached out to touch his fingers to the king’s throat. It was not easy. He had to undo layers of robes and undershirts to uncover the bare flesh. Even then, he almost fainted from exhaustion before he found the pulse point at Armand’s throat.
To his amazement, he felt a faint throb against his fingertips.
He’s alive. Alive. I ought to heal him. I ought to—
Before he could complete the thought, the pulse faded.
No. No, my king.
Khandarr fumbled to recapture that proof that Armand lived, that he had not committed the ultimate blunder in his long quest for supremacy over the court and kingdom. His protests died even as he felt the flesh beneath his fingers stiffen and cool. It was like the moment when spirit leapt into the magical plane—except that this soul, this king, would never return as himself. Armand of Angersee had already joined the river of souls streaming from one life to the next.
My friend, my king. I would have done everything for you. To build a kingdom, an empire. To establish your name in history. If you only had listened to me one last time …
He gazed uncomprehendingly at the king’s body. Blood spattered Armand’s face, now slack and stupid in death. More blood clotted his hair. The eyes stared back at him, blank and unseeing. Khandarr almost laughed, thinking it was a fitting description of this man, who had thrust away all attempts to see clearly. It was only in those last moments that Armand turned away to see for himself.
And for that, I killed him.
Khandarr brushed his fingers over the king’s eyes. He wiped away the worst of the blood from Armand’s forehead. It had the consistency of spilled ink. It smelled much worse. An animal stink and ripe with rot.
A thrum reverberated through the chamber. A chime from the sand hour globes, followed by an echo of bells outside. One hour past midnight. He flinched, suffered a moment of panic. How long had he sat there, blind and useless, with the king dead at his feet? It took him several moments before he could remember that he and the king were alone in the king’s most private chamber, which was locked by metal and magic, not to mention the guards. Even the queen and her ladies could not enter without permission.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was safe for the moment, but not much longer. Runners with important messages might arrive. That bastard Duke Kosenmark could demand an interview with the king, even at this late hour. And tomorrow there would be an investigation, with all the consequences that implied. Oh yes, the consequences. Khandarr could imagine a mass of courtiers clamoring for a return of their many favors. Galt would be the worst. They had given him nothing of worth, the fools. Once they heard the news, they would join the throngs in accusing him.
Only if they heard the wrong news.
Yes. That was it. The king was dead. No way to disguise that. However, no one knew of the king’s death except Markus Khandarr and the gods themselves, and the gods were slow to act, as he had observed, blind Toc the slowest of all. Besides, he only needed to evade their justice for a day at the most. By then, they would be bored again and Erythandra could continue on its course to a new empire.
And a new emperor.
His breath hissed from his throat. Yes. That was one outcome. He would address that later. For now, he had to contain the panic and accusations that would surely follow the king’s death in private chambers. He must make certain the queen and her children were safe from retribution. Armand’s oldest child was a boy, five years old. Khandarr would ensure his safety. He would advise the boy, as he had advised the father. Soon he could regain his ascendancy over the throne.
Khandarr muttered a stream of Erythandran. The magic current drew close around him, lending him strength enough to haul himself upright. Standing, he braced himself with his feet and staff, drawing one rattling breath after another. His bones ached, his muscles cried out for relief. The sac of flesh between his legs hung heavy and cold. He wanted nothing more than to lie on his bed and let a girl massage him into sleep.
No. Time for that tomorrow, if then.
He drew the current around his shoulders, like a shroud. Half a dozen steps brought him to the first door. He leaned against its frame and laid his palm against the lock. The tumblers clicked, the spells unfolded at his bidding, and the door swung open. By force of will, and the ever-diminishing vigor leant to him over the years by magic, he proceeded through two more rooms until he gained the outer doors.
The guards saluted at once. Khandarr ignored them. He summoned a runner, one of the newly appointed men who served in the night watch, to fetch Maester Galt from his rooms in the visitor’s wing. No questioning there. The man wanted to earn his place in the king’s service. He ran.
To the guards, Khandarr said, “Admit no one but Galt. That is the king’s command.”
He retired to the inner room to wait. The fire in the brazier had died to ashes. Khandarr relit it, and scattered more incense into the flames. A cloud of sweet fresh perfume filled the room, but underneath Khandarr thought he detected the first ripe scent of decay. His instinct said to lay the body on its bed, to cover the staring face with a cloth. That was old teaching, from his almost-forgotten childhood, when his father died in the mines of northern Ournes, in the mountains between Veraene and Károví. Since those hungry days, Khandarr had learned patience and expediency. He had lost some of that necessary patience in the past six months, but never a hold on the latter.
Better to leave the king’s body where it lay, he decided. It would be more convincing when he told his story of intruders and assassins.
Khandarr shut the window. Taking the king’s own seat behind the desk, he busied himself writing various orders to achieve his ends. He could command the loyalty of certain officers in the guards. With the right bribes, he could remove or contain troublesome members of court and council. He needed more, however. He needed absolute control. For that he needed a first, decisive victory against his enemies.
For that, I need the blood of a king.
Just as he finished the last order, the bell rang announcing a visitor. Khandarr traversed the rooms with greater speed and energy to admit Theodr Galt. Galt had paused long enough to comb and rebraid his queue, but his air was one of fevered curiosity. At least the man showed some sense and said nothing until the doors closed and they had passed into the first of the inner chambers.
“I came as quickly as possible, my lord. You and the king wish to speak with me?”
