Page 4 of Path of the Dark
The company approached, the clatter of hooves echoing off the surrounding stone buildings.
Ryana surveyed the knot of Anthor riders, her gaze alighting upon one of the men. Tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair cropped short in military fashion, he looked straight ahead as he rode. Golden epaulets fastened his cloak to a glittering black mail shirt that looked as if it had been fashioned out of obsidian.
The soldier didn’t look her way, didn’t appear to notice his surroundings at all. Instead, he stared straight ahead: gaze hard, expression inscrutable.
Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the riders were past, thundering up the cobbled thoroughfare that led to the palace.
Ryana forgot her need for distraction then. Instead, unease feathered across her nape as she watched them go.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Aye … the jewel of The Four Kingdoms.”
Elias and Santino rode, side-by-side, up The King’s Way. A gleaming white city surrounded them, almost blinding in the noon light. Its turreted Tower of the North loomed before them, piercing a cloudless blue sky. The warm spring sun bathed their faces as they rode up the road that led toward the glittering palace, their horses’ hooves clattering over the cobbles.
“Still.” Santino continued, a sour edge to his voice. “I prefer Mirrar Rock … I don’t like being this far from the sea.”
Elias glanced right at where Santino rode a lathered black gelding. His second-in-command’s bearded face was pinched, his gaze fixed on the spiraling way ahead.
“Aye.” Elias drew in a lungful of air. It was fresh here, in the heart of the Rithmar Highlands. The scent of pine from the surrounding wooded slopes mingled with the dewy mist created by the many waterfalls coursing down the hillsides flanking the city. “There won’t be any fried squid for supper in this city.”
Santino made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “No … it’ll be some kind of gamey stew, no doubt.”
A tight smile stretched Elias’s mouth. Food was something men of Anthor often discussed. Namely, how foul the northern fare was compared to the garlic-laced delicacies of home.
Home.
Elias hadn’t seen it for a long while. And thanks to his father, he might never set eyes on the gleaming black obsidian bulk of Mirrar Rock’s palace again.
The rest of their party—men loyal to Elias—rode close behind. Like Elias and Santino, they carried no weapons. Rithmar soldiers flanked them on all sides.
Elias’s party had encountered a royal patrol four days earlier, just half a day north of the border, and had surrendered without a struggle before handing over their weapons. It had galled Elias to allow himself to be captured and led north. But it was necessary. Only the fact he was the Prince of Anthor prevented the soldiers dragging him here in chains—that and the message of peace he carried.
Elias’s destrier, Bolt, snorted then. The muscles on the stallion’s back flexed from the steep climb. The warhorse had been with him for years—a companion through endless campaigns. He felt closer to the beast than to members of his own family; it had certainly caused him less trouble.
Leaning forward, Elias slapped the stallion on the neck. “Not much longer, lad,” he murmured. “Almost there.”
They brought him before the king immediately.
Elias led his party, Santino and the others following in single file behind him. Rithmar soldiers surrounded the Anthor prince. Even unarmed they didn’t trust him.
Elias bit back a wry smile.Wise.
They entered the throne room, a vast space with a domed roof and a forest of giant pale stone pillars. Faded frescoes covered the ceiling, remnants of a forgotten time, when the people of Serran had worshipped the God of the Sky and his kin; a time before Valgarth the Shadow King, a time before folk turned to the shadows.
A man waited for Elias. He sat upon a throne made out of white, blue-veined marble, his dark gaze riveted upon the visitor.
King Nathan of Rithmar looked to be around Elias’s own age—mid-thirties—with a military bearing and short dark hair. Sitting back, body relaxed yet watchful, the king exuded strength. Around his shoulders he wore a thick, fawn-colored mink cloak. It was a military commander’s cloak; he looked as if he was about to stride out onto the battlefield.
Watching him, Elias was struck by how different Nathan appeared to his own king.
Apart from his magnificent cloak, Nathan appeared to care little for the luxuries his rank afforded him. In contrast, Reoul dressed himself in the finest fabrics and jewels his gold could buy.
Four men flanked Nathan, hard-faced soldiers with sharp gazes—his personal guard. Elias neared the dais, his boots whispering on polished stone. He noted that the floor was beautiful: dark red marble, veined with white and pink strands.
His escort stopped around eight yards from the throne. They stepped aside so Elias and the king faced each other.
Elias nodded a silent greeting. He wasn’t going to bow or mouth honorifics—and he certainly wasn’t going to kneel before Nathan. He too was royalty. He didn’t even get down on one knee before his own father.
