Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

One of his councillors hissed in surprise. Armand nearly did himself.

Khandarr had never been young, in Armand’s eyes. He had gained entry into Duenne’s Court when he was forty-two, and Armand a child. He had served in minor positions, always grateful, always happy for whatever duties were handed over to him. Later, after Armand’s father died of drink and suicide, Khandarr had offered his unquestioning attention to the young prince. He had secured Armand’s rooms against all intrusions, even those of the king. To Armand of Angersee, Markus Khandarr was invincible.

But this broken old man was almost a stranger. His face had turned lopsided, one half unnaturally stiff and drawn into an ugly knot of deeply etched lines, the other sagging into pouches. Khandarr stomped onward, each step accompanied by a wince, a barely suppressed groan. His staff clicked loudly over the tiled floor.

Armand watched his slow progress with growing apprehension. And anger.

You told me you had discovered a mage from Morennioù. You never mentioned that mage bested you.

He should have guessed, however, that there was something more. Khandarr had sent only one report from Osterling Keep. It was laden with details about the Károvín ships that foundered offshore, hints of an expedition to faraway islands, about soldiers who died even as Khandarr attempted to question them, and then, almost as an afterthought, the mention of a great discovery.

Weeks of silence had followed, broken only by one brief note from Tiralien. Since then, nothing. Nothing for almost three months.

Khandarr stopped a few steps away from Armand’s chair. He adjusted his grip on his wooden staff and, with obvious effort, lowered himself to one knee. His gray hair was tousled from wind and stiffened with sweat. Dust coated his clothes. He had obviously come here directly from the stables.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I request … an audience. A private one.”

His voice was faint, his words slurring together.

Of course you want a private audience, Armand thought. You bring news of a failure. One so shameful, you didn’t dare send a report by written word.

His councillors were already on their feet. Feltzen had crumpled his papers together. Quint barely held himself back from scrambling to escape. Armand waited, his stomach drawing into an ever-tighter knot, until he heard the door bolted closed behind them.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

Khandarr jerked his head up. Did he hear an echo of Baerne of Angersee in that command? Another day, Armand might have treasured such a victory. Today was different. He pointed to Feltzen’s chair. “Sit. Speak. If you can,” he added.

It was an unnecessary bit of cruelty. Armand wished he could recall the words. Khandarr grimaced—strange how that twisted face could express such clear emotions—and raised himself to his feet. He stumped over to the chair. Once seated, he poured himself a cup of sweet wine and drank it down.

“Kosenmark,” he said. “News from Tiralien. And more. That I could not entrust to messengers.”

Interesting. So he hoped to convey that this long-overdue report would be the true and complete one. Armand found himself curious how Khandarr’s account would compare with those of his other spies.

“Go on,” he said.

Khandarr nodded briskly, a gesture more like his old self. He poured a second cup of wine, and proceeded to give his report, though still in that strange and garbled voice.

Armand listened with growing surprise and dread as his mage councillor recited the events of the past three months. Károví and its mysterious fleet. Lir’s Veil breached and the jewels recovered—one of them at least, he gathered. Khandarr’s speech had turned almost incomprehensible as he swiftly recounted this interview between himself and a supposed mage from Morennioù.

One part, however, was clear.

“That bitch. Morennioù’s spy. She escaped,” Khandarr said. “I do not know how.”

The unaccustomed vulgarity startled Armand. He wanted to demand particulars about their interview, but knew Khandarr would avoid a direct answer. So he asked the second-most urgent question on that very long list he’d formed over the past few months.

“Where did she go, then? Back to Morennioù? You said she was a member of their court. A noble or emissary.”

Khandarr shook his head. “To Károví. At least. So I believe.”

An interesting equivocation. “And Kosenmark’s lover?”

“Dead. Perhaps.”

“You have doubts about the official reports?”

Armand’s gaze met Khandarr’s. Khandarr smiled grimly. So there was a question whether Ilse Zhalina lived or not. Knowing Raul Kosenmark, and the woman he called beloved, that did not surprise him.

“What brought you to Tiralien?” he asked next.