Page 141 of Anathema

“I’ll have Dorjan’s carriage inspected and prepared right away.”

“I’ll inspect it myself.”

“Truly, I am grateful for you.” With another nervous pat to Zevander’s shoulder, he gulped back his wine.

Zevander finished his, while the king sent his cup bearer to summon the carriage, then he pushed to his feet and exited the chambers. He made his way down to the front of the castle, where the carriage awaited and three footmen carefully scanned over its every inch. Zevander joined them, looking for any evidence of tampering, whether it be an explosive fragor, or cursed malustone, hidden somewhere on the body of it.

After a thorough scouring, he found nothing.

From there, he made his way to the armory for a suit that would allow him to blend in with the other guards. While he loathed the cumbersome weight of the armor, the way it slowed and restricted his movements, it kept his identity hidden while allowing him to remain in close proximity to the prince. Once fully garbed in the armor, he returned to the carriage.

Prince Dorjan strode up, donned in fine silks of purple and silver, with newly shined leather shoes. “I understand you’re to escort me to my doom, according to my father.” The prince straightened his cuff and smiled.

“Strange, I was under the impression I was escorting you to the nearest cliff to practice your diving skills.”

The prince chuckled, and waited as the coachman opened the door for him. “Honestly, Zevander, you’re the only one I’d permit to speak to me that way. And only because I fear you could pummel me into dust, if you were ambitious enough.”

“Pummeling is for brutes.” Zevander climbed into the carriage and took a seat across from the prince. “Poison is far more elegant.”

“Quite. Thankfully, your alchemy is shit, as I understand.” The comment brought a slight smile to Zevander’s face, even though his mind remained entangled in his infuriating preoccupations with a mortal beauty.

The door slammed, and the carriage set into motion.

Dusk mantled the village, and the festive firelights that’d been strung overhead glowed in the waning light. Through the window of the carriage, Zevander watched as an older villager climbed a wooden ladder and, with a strike of flint, lit the first bulb. The flame caught the second bulb and the third, lighting each bulb in its path. The village enlivened as the moon rose into the sky and a crowd gathered around a platform set in Hemlock Square.

The arena where the fighting would soon take place stood off in the distance, the stony pillars of its entrance adorned with flowers and lights, along with the purple and silver banners boasting the king’s heraldry and bloodline.

The carriage rolled to a stop beside where The Imperial Guard had gathered, and they shielded the prince as he strode up the stairs to the center of the platform, which held the elaborate wheel of silver filigree.

Dorjan stood before his audience and bowed. “My good people,” he began. “On this night, when the moons are nearly one, we honor my sister with three nights of tournaments and festivities.”

Zevander scanned over the crowd from his position beside the prince, his gaze not missing a single body in the throng as he searched for any sign of hostility. The Imperial Guard lined the perimeter of the platform, and a second line formed a barrier between the prince and the crowd. The mere gesture itself implied a lack of trust, but the king had spared no cost, nor measure, to keep his son safe.

Another sweep of the crowd, and Zevander’s gaze landed on a man toward the back, whose hooded cloak hid most of his face. He lifted a crossbow, aiming it square at the prince.

“Dorjan! Move!” Zevander shouted, and the prince flinched, ducking to the side.

The thunk of an arrow pierced the wheel’s wooden frame no more than a mere inch from Prince Dorjan’s face.

Zevander lurched forward, shielding the prince. He drew his Venetox sword from its scabbard, eyes scanning for the man who’d disappeared.

Vibrations against the wooden platform drew his attention to a raw, pale pink mass quivering there. Pig’s fat. A gesture of greed.

An outcry from the far reaches of the crowd rose into an angry chant, and as Zevander listened, he could make out the incredulous name on their lips.

“Cadavros lives! Cadavros lives! The king will die! The king will die!”

A group of hooded villagers rushed forward while drawing weapons and attacked the front line of Imperial Guards.

“Get the prince to the carriage!” Zevander called to the men near the staircase, and they gathered around Dorjan as he descended the platform. A flaming arrow hit the wheel, igniting the kindling that set it in motion.

The chants grew louder.

A villager slipped through the guard and rushed toward the prince, swinging a flail over his head.

Zevander jumped off the platform and hammered a powerful kick to his chest that sent the pale, skinny man flying backward.

Nilivir.

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