Kings Rising (Captive Prince 3)

At fifteen, he had felt such pride at Nikandros’s accomplishment, even as he had embraced Nikandros and felt what it meant that his closest friend was leaving him to serve alongside the greatest fighters in Akielos. Perhaps, underneath that, something else, unacknowledged, was now in his voice.

‘You were jealous.’

‘My father said that I had to learn to lead, not to follow.’

‘He was right,’ said Laurent. ‘You’re a king in a place of kings.’

They had passed the gates. They started to climb the steps, up the grassy hillside towards the marble pillars that marked the entry to the hall. Each stage had sentries, white-cloaked and standing guard.

A hundred queens and kings of Akielos had been crowned here, the processionals taking the same path that they took now: up the marble steps that led from the gates all the way to the entrance of the hall, the steps themselves eroded by decades of ascending feet.

He felt the solemnity of the place, and its quiet majesty. He heard himself say, ‘The first King of Akielos was crowned here, and every queen and king since.’

They passed more sentries as they walked past the pillars and into the long, cavernous space of pale marble. The marble walk was carved with figures, and Laurent paused before one of them, a woman on horseback.

‘That’s Kydippe, she was Queen before Euandros. She took the throne from King Treus and averted civil war.’

‘And that one?’

‘That’s Thestos. He built the palace at Ios.’

‘He looks like you.’ Thestos was carved in outline, holding a giant piece of masonry aloft. Laurent touched his bicep, then touched Damen’s. Damen let out a breath.

There was a transgressive thrill to walking with Laurent here—he had brought a Veretian prince into the heart of Akielos. His father would have barred the way to Laurent, not let him rise, a slender figure, utterly dwarfed by the scale of the hall.

‘That’s Nekton, who broke the Kingsmeet’s laws.’

Nekton had drawn a sword to protect his brother, King Timon. He was pictured on his knees, with an axe to his neck. King Timon had been forced to sentence his brothe

r to death for what he had done, so strict were the ancient laws of the Kingsmeet. ‘That’s Timon, his brother.’

They passed them in succession: Eradne, Queen of the Six, the first since Agathon to rule six provices and command six kyroi; Queen Agar, who had brought Isthima into the kingdom; King Euandros, who had lost Delpha. He felt the weight of those kings and queens as he had never felt it—here before them not as a king, but as a man.

He came to a halt in front of the oldest carving, a single name chiselled crudely into the stone.

‘That is Agathon,’ said Damen, ‘the first King of Akielos. My father is descended from King Euandros, but my line runs back to Agathon through my mother.’

‘His nose is chipped,’ said Laurent.

‘He unified a kingdom.’ My father had all the same dreams. Damen said, ‘Everything I have has passed to me from him.’ They reached the end of the walk.

The sentries stood, guarding the inviolable space, the inner chamber of rougher stone, the only place in Akielos where a prince could kneel, to be crowned and rise a king.

‘As it will pass, I suppose, to my son,’ said Damen.

They entered, and saw a figure waiting for them, swathed in red, sitting comfortably on the heavy, carved wooden throne.

‘Not quite,’ said the Regent.

* * *

Every nerve came to alert. Damen’s mind flashed to—ambush, double cross—his eyes scanning the entrances for figures, for the swarm of men surrounding them. But the ring of metal, the clatter of feet never came. There was just his heart pounding in the silence, the impassive faces of the Kingsmeet soldiers, and the Regent rising and strolling forward, alone.

Damen forced himself to release the hilt of his sword, which he’d gripped instinctively. The stymied desire to put his blade to the Regent’s throat beat in him, a thundering call to action that he must ignore. The rules of the Kingsmeet were sacrosanct. He could not draw a sword here and live.

The Regent stood waiting for them like a king before the Kingstone, his authority carried in his bones, dressed in dark red, a royal mantle on his shoulders. The scale of the hall suited him, the commanding power he possessed, as he met Laurent’s eyes.

‘Laurent,’ said the Regent, softly, ‘you have caused me a great deal of trouble.’