Page 284 of The Cradle of Ice
“This target, though, makes sense,” Treasurer Hesst said, picking his way behind them. “The palacio lies in the shadow of Highmount’s walls, buried in one of the six points of its stars. It’s remote, exactly opposite the Legionary with its barracks and billets. Plus, they’re just pleasure serfs. No one would expect an attack here. It’s an insult for sure, but little more than a nuisance.”
Balyn had the wherewithal to glare at Hesst for dismissing the slaughter so callously. Still, there was little true heat to his disapproval. He looked more upset to be dragged from his bed at this early hour, as had all the council.
The king’s summons had left them no choice. Toranth was already furious, and no one dared goad him any further. They all knew his mood following the campaign in the Klashe. He had thundered and bellowed behind those closed doors. It was estimated they had lost nearly a sixth of their winged forces.
Hesst glanced around as they continued. “Of course, there are plenty of guards here now. Though, they look less grim and more disappointed that they missed their chance at a pleasurable reward.”
Wryth did not agree. While some of the legionnaires did appear bored—and a few pocketed treasures left behind by the dead—far more had firm sets to their lips or muttered promises of revenge to each other. It wasn’t just serfs who had been slain here, but many of their fellow brothers-in-arms.
Wryth’s group finally reached where the king had summoned them. It was the farthest of the palacio’s salons, as if Toranth wanted them to view the carnage firsthand before reaching here, to soil their boots and rub their noses in all the blood. The chamber stood at the deepest angle of this point of the wall’s star.
Tall doors closed off the room, marking the royal salon of the king.
Only now it would be turned into a makeshift council chamber.
A full fist of Vyrllian knights had been posted at the entry. Though their faces were stained crimson, fury darkened their countenances. Brows were lowered over hard eyes.
The doors were opened for them. They were likely the last to arrive.
Wryth entered ahead of the other two, intending not to be the very last. More knights crowded within the room. Apparently, Toranth was not taking any chances that an assassin might still be hidden on the grounds.
As Wryth entered, a heavy silence greeted him, which was more worrisome than when Toranth blustered. Wryth hurried deeper into the grand salon. The space was draped in velvet, smoky with incense, and lit by an array of gold lanterns. Directly ahead, a large hearth glowed with coals. To the left, a stout table had been set with a flagon of wine and a cold platter of dried fruit, cheeses, and hard breads, a lean repast for when they discussed this attack and how to respond.
Wryth had barely entered when he noted that all the vy-knights in the room had black sigils tattooed on one side of their faces.
All Silvergard.
Wryth’s chest clenched, trapping his breath. He suspected the truth, and in another step, it was confirmed.
To his right, a large bed had been stripped of its blankets and furs. At its foot, two women lay in pools of blood, throats slashed to bone, nearly decapitated. Atop the bed, another body was sprawled, naked and exposed, winged by pools of blood.
King Toranth, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii.
A Klashean sword had been shoved through his mouth, the blade curving down his throat, silencing him forever. The hilt shone brightly above his blue lips.
To the side, Prince Mikaen knelt with his forehead to the bed, his hands clutching hard to his father’s arm, his fingers digging deep into the cold flesh.
Wryth knew it must have been the prince who had summoned the council, to keep the death of the king secret until they could all divine a path forward from here.
Captain Thoryn stood next to Mikaen, guarding over the prince’s grief.
“What do we do?” Balyn whispered.
No one answered.
Wryth drew no nearer. Even with his one eye, he could plainly see the truth from here. His gaze remained fixed to the hilt of that curved sword. Though it had been scraped and abraded, its pommel showed divots from where gemstones had once adorned it. In his mind’s eye, Wryth replaced those rubies and sapphires, returning the sword to its former glory.
Wryth knew this weapon.
It was Prince Paktan’s sword—a trophy won by Mikaen weeks ago.
The prince lifted his face from the bed, his cheeks streaked with tears.
All of them feigned.
98
ON THE MORNING of the winter’s solstice, Kanthe followed alongside Aalia down the center of the vaulted throne room. Crowds cheered and clapped from the packed galleries and arcades to either side. Ahead, the hall’s two gold thrones, along with the sweep of gilded wings above them, had been polished and gleamed in the sunlight cast by the rosette window above.
