Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

He does not want it, she said. He wants a king to rule Veraene in truth. But kingship is not the same as war. Yes, Baerne defended us. He was a great man. But there is more than a single path to greatness. Give us peace, your Majesty. Peace throughout the continent. Surely that is a legacy worth having. Read the letter, your Majesty. Look to the future and not the dead past.

She was weeping, for Armand and the kingdom, for yet another life spent in the quest for a greater cause. No one would listen to her. Leos had not. Nor would this young king. After a few more questions, Armand flicked his hand toward Fass, who bent over Ilse and whispered the words to free her from his spell.

Magic trickled from her blood and bones. She sank to her knees before the dais. Whatever dignity she had once possessed had deserted her entirely. She didn’t care. Fass spoke again. Warmth rippled through her blood, enough to take away the lassitude.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not do better than those others.”

“You are better,” she whispered back. “You did what I asked. Thank you.”

* * *

A CONFUSING PASSAGE followed. Numerous retainers in the duke’s colors escorted Ilse from the grand audience chamber. She tried to catch another glimpse of Raul Kosenmark, but they hurried her away so quickly, she saw no more than a dark dull blur that might have been his prison uniform. Only when Heloïse whispered to her that she could visit Lord Kosenmark the next morning, did she stop struggling and allow the retainers to lift her into a chair and carry her rapidly through the palace to Duke Kosenmark’s apartments.

Heloïse said much more that she had difficulty taking in, but which comforted her later. She assured Ilse that Benno Iani and Josef Mann were safe. She herself would be safe as well, housed in rooms close to their own suite and guarded by their own people—at least until the king decided otherwise, she admitted. Until then, their father would argue for her and his son.

In the midst of these explanations, Marte arrived with a tray with refreshments, and together, the sisters fed Ilse plain toasted bread and tea. They were kind, kind and gentle as Ilse had not expected from such dangerous women. “I told him the truth,” she said over and over. “I do not know if it’s enough.”

They glanced at each other. One of them, Ilse could not remember which, nodded. “No more secrets. No more lies.”

* * *

FAR AWAY, IN another quarter of the palace, Markus Khandarr attended a private meeting with the king. Hours had passed since Ilse Zhalina’s audience, and the bells were ringing midnight. Both had had previous and more public obligations, Armand with his other chief advisers as they discussed the contents of Miro Karasek’s letter, and Markus Khandarr, who attended that first meeting and then one of his own with various associates and allies in Duenne’s Court.

Now, he and the king met alone.

A low fire burned in a brazier, sending up little warmth but clouds of fresh incense. Armand sat in a cushioned chair, his head cradled in both hands. He had a headache. Anyone would, Khandarr thought, listening to the idiotic testimony by Kosenmark’s lover. Of course Dzavek’s minions wished to negotiate for peace. They had no jewels, nor king, nothing to prevent Veraene from taking back the province.

Nothing, except the promise of a bloody war.

So they claimed. So Kosenmark believed.

So, if he read the signs correctly, did Veraene’s king.

“She was not what I expected,” Armand said softly as he massaged his temples. “Nor her message. He was innocent of treason.”

“Not innocent. Remember what your people said.”

“They followed a ship. On your orders,” Armand said. “It led them north to Károví, yes, but we have no proof Kosenmark was on that ship, nor that he met with anyone, whether this Duke Karasek or another. Perhaps…” He released a long breath. “Perhaps we were wrong to promote this war. I know what I said before, but think of it. Peace between the kingdoms, and not just between Veraene and Károví, but all the nations of Erythandra…”

He continued in that same vein, maundering on about legacies and such, until Khandarr could not bear it any longer. He stood and lurched around the room, finally coming to rest by the half-open window. A skein of clouds obscured the quarter moon, now hanging low in the sky. From the north came a thread of breeze, colored by pine tang. It was a scent Khandarr had always associated with the palace and the doings of kings. Of influence and the exercise of absolute power. Tonight, it brought him no relief.

“Your Majesty,” he said softly.

A warning. As clear as he could make it. Would Armand recognize it?

He did not. Or he did not wish to hear it. On and on the boy went, his thoughts fixed on Ilse Zhalina’s lies, about that damned new legacy, whatever that meant. Khandarr wished he had executed the bitch in Osterling. Instead she had escaped, and stolen away that other vicious creature, the one who now claimed she was queen of Morennioù.

His legs ached. His body was ready to collapse from weariness and frustration, and an anger he had not been able to suppress since Osterling. No, longer still. Since a day twelve or thirteen years ago, when a golden-eyed boy named Raul Kosenmark had first arrived in Duenne’s Court.

“Your Majesty,” Khandarr repeated, louder than before, trying to overcome the roaring in his ears. Dimly, he understood he had lost some precious ability for caution, no doubt the fault of that encounter with the Morennioùen bitch, but all too easily the rage inside overwhelmed him. And when Armand made that same dismissive gesture, he raised his staff and brought it down upon the king’s head in a single hard blow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

KHANDARR STARED DOWN at the king.

Armand of Angersee lay sprawled at full length upon the dark blue tiles, as though someone had flung him there. His chair, a heavy object, had toppled to one side, dragging one silk-knotted rug with it. The small table with its sunburst pattern of inlay, which had stood next to the chair at Armand’s right hand, lay in broken pieces. A trickle of blood flowed outward from the king’s forehead, the only movement in this utterly still, utterly silent scene.

The destruction was