XV

He hadn’t told her what he was going to do. Didn’t want her to know what he was going to do.

Arlian had resolved himself to assassinate king Dalthyn tonight—before Jorrissiana could change her choice of prince.

“You seem… different, Arlian. Are you all right?” Mariel had asked. He insisted he was, and she didn’t press the matter, but he knew she knew something wasn’t right. She was his wife—she knew him well.

Readying himself for what he was about to undertake, he noticed his hands were shaking. Arlian was going to commit treason. Did Kandion know that?

King Dalthyn was nearing his death, could barely keep awake for more than a few moments to utter out some scratchy words. He wasn’t killing a man that would go on living. He was hastening the imminent death of a man already doomed.

At least that’s what he told himself over and over.

He was no assassin. But for this, Arlian decided not to wear armor, instead choosing trousers with high boots and a loose shirt with lace cuffs. He also put on his unadorned black cape.

On his belt, he had his sword and two of his sharpest daggers, the scabbards for his daggers he turned to his backside for concealment.

Quickly, he checked on Mariel. She was sound asleep, breathing lightly. This may be the last time he ever saw her.

“I’m sorry, my love.”

Riding Vira, he went to the castle. The roads were mostly empty due to the late hour. He would be admitted, would always be admitted no matter the hour, as he was the Commander of the City Watch.

Once in the castle grounds getting into the castle proper was easy. He avoided the front entrance where the porters and guards waited day and night. Striding like he belonged through the grounds, he followed a narrow alley between the outbuildings near the stables, until he came to the outer wing where the back door to the kitchens were located.

The door would no doubt be locked, but Arlian knew the castle and its various doors well enough. He and Kandrion had often manipulated locks and traversed passages and corridors only used by the servants to scheme, plot and play their games.

Coming to the kitchen door, a non-descript wood-paneled portal, he checked to see if it was locked. It was, and was satisfied that it was.

There was no guard.

Slipping his smaller dagger out of its sheath, he stuck the blade into the door and manipulated the lift lock. Just like when he was younger. He was halfway surprised the lock was still of a similar fashion.

The guards in the grounds—had they seen him from a distance, would have simply believed he had the key.

Entering the back corridor, he stepped lightly in case the kitchen was occupied for whatever reason. Even he had come to the kitchens in the night to eat snacks when waking up hungry.

No one was there. The kitchens were dark and the sitting benches were empty. The cook furnaces smoldered but were still somewhat lit with active coals, giving off warmth.

Unlike the cell he would likely occupy later.

Quietly he went to the foods. There were cheeses, breads and many flavors of dried meats. Some of these would be prepared for breakfast the next day. He took a wooden plate and filled it with various items and a few choice pieces of fruit, then grabbed a bottle of wine and uncorked it with his teeth and made his way out of the kitchens.

Arlian needed to avoid Sennica at all costs. If the old man caught him roaming the castle at night, he would not be fooled. But the guards? Unless they were the same men on duty from earlier in the day, and particularly astute in their performance, Arlian would easily give them the slip, as they would think he was simply up late and having gone to the kitchens for a bite to eat before going back to his chambers.

Easy.

Perhaps Arlian should have been an assassin. The thought disturbed him, as Kandrion was a friend. They had grown up together, and king Dalthyn had always treated him well, if somewhat invisibly.

Forgive me, Highness. But what he was about to do was for the kingdom of Aevalin. Kandrion and his father before him were good stewards—they cared for the kingdom, its future and its people.

They would want this.

Prince Balthazar however… the man was cut from a wholly different cloth. How that had happened was a mystery to Arlian.

He passed the guards, who didn’t even give him a second look, though one of them nodded, said “Evil tiding, my lord.”

Arlian, feeling wooden as ever, tried to smile and nod as congenially as possible. Inwardly he cringed at his performance, but the guard did not react negatively.

Heart hammering inside his chest, he made his way up the stairs where the king’s bedchambers were located. On this floor of the castle, Kandrion also slept.

Why had the guard said that to him? What a strange thing to say.

Had Arlian missed something?

For some reason he felt confused. He looked at his hands, held them in fists to keep from shaking.

He wasn’t thinking straight.

Something was wrong.

He walked down the quiet but brightly lit halls adorned with yellow-white glow stones in ornamental lamps gilded in silver and gold. Around the corner was the entrance to the king’s chambers. But first there was a foyer area that lead to a sitting room, a sun room, a dining room, and then finally his bedchambers.

He needed to get past the guard there. Peaking, he needed to make sure he was in fact there, and the man was. But he was not armored. Instead he wore the colorful livery of the castle, blue and white with some dark red slashes in the upper arms of his puffed sleeves.

There was no way the man would let him just walk into those chambers. If he tried, he’d get a pole axe to the back of his head.

Arlian pulled his sword belt around. Up until now it was mostly hidden behind his cape and leg.

The guard was quite still.

Slowly. Very slowly, Arlian drew his blade. Ordinarily no assassin could get this far, because none had the required knowledge of how the Royal Guard functioned as Arlian did. At one time it had been his intention to become part of that honorable company of men, but his path had lead him in other directions, the City Watch namely.

If he charged the guard, and the man saw him, he would react, perhaps shout and attempt to defend himself with his pole arm.

Arlian would be discovered and quickly dispatched.

He could also simply stride down the hall as if he belonged. The guard would challenge him, and then he would spring into action. The second option seemed better.

Scratching his temple from the sweat that made him itch, he realized he was shaking like a leaf. He forced himself to stride out, his sword held point down behind his back in his left hand near the wall, to conceal the fact that he was armed.

The guard heard him approaching, turned and saw him coming. At first the man seemed unsurprised, then his eyes darted toward Arlian’s hidden arm.

He stepped out jerkily, probably never having had to challenge anyone at this hour in his entire career.

“Halt!” he commanded, leaning his pole arm out to the left while he put forward his right palm.

Arlian took one more stride and lunged, swinging his blade in a wide overhand arc toward the guard’s head.

The man, to his credit, almost managed to yank his pole arm in the way to defend himself, but the flat of Arlian’s blade came down squarely atop his head, the guard’s ornamental hat providing a cushion against the hard steel.

He toppled over, and Arlian stumbled to catch the pole arm before it slammed into the carpeted floor. The sound of the fall from the guard, at least to Arlian’s ears, was loud enough to make him want to wince.

Quickly, he glanced about, heard no one, and breathed out heavily.

Arlian felt as if he were walking on a thin layer of ice.

Now where to put—

Voices came from inside the halls beyond the door leading to the king’s outer chambers. Eyes wide, Arlian grabbed the guard under the shoulders and dragged him haphazardly down the hall and around the corner so his unconscious form wouldn’t be found, then lunged for the pole arm and snatched it up.

The door handle turned.

Arlian froze—then made the snap decision to kill whoever opened those doors. He was about to strike when the man on the other side asked, “My lord?”

It was Gracian!

Shocked at Arlian’s naked blade and the pole arm in his other hand, he added, “What’s happening?”

“It’s nothing,” Arlian said, leaning the pole arm against the wall. “Pay it no mind, man.” He sheathed his blade and quickly changed the subject. “What are you doing here, Gracian?”

“My lord, I didn’t know. It’s my lady—I mean the king. It’s my lady and the king, my lord.”

Arlian looked at him and to cover his own nervousness, demanded sharply, “Stop stammering, you fool and explain yourself!”

He gave Arlian the distinct impression of a perspiring rabbit, then reached up to his collar and pulled his shirt open, revealing the same serpentine inking he had discovered previously.

Shit!

Gracian swallowed. “He’s passing. Come quickly!”

“Who?” Arlian asked, following Gracian, but then it dawned on him. It was the king. He was dying. He exhaled, hopping Gracian didn’t hear him. Perhaps nature would do the terrible deed Arlian had come here to enact.

And if not…

Had Gracian been almost any other man, he’d be lying in a pool of his own blood right now—Arlian in danger of his motives being quickly uncovered.

The guard. He had forgotten the guard!

When they reached the antechamber he realized the rooms were filled with courtesans and family members. No wonder the guard was so late in challenging him. He hadn’t been the first to enter the chambers in the night.

There was Sennica looking at him in surprise. In the corners of the room were the black-robed black-armored knights loyal to Bathezar. One of them promptly approached Arlian. “Lord,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you for your blade.”

“Excuse me, knight?”

“Your blade, my lord. You will have to relinquish it to me if you are to remain in these chambers.”

There was no point in arguing when eight of these knights were present. And if they were here—why had it not come to him sooner?

Arlian was a fool!

“Where is Prince Balthezar?” he asked.

“Your blade.”

Arlian noticed the other members of his order were becoming visibly agitated. He felt a distinct air of menace in the antechamber. “I asked you a question, knight!”

“The prince is with his His Grace the king!”

Arlian’s eyes widened. No, he thought. Balthezar was never near to the king. He was always late. And yet now, at this time of all times, he was here, far earlier than everyone else?

Instinct took over and he shoved the knight to the side, drew his sword as he ran across the antechamber floor. It was Balthazar—he was here to kill the king!

He didn’t know why, but he knew there was a plot, knew it in his bones. Shouts erupted and women screamed.

“STOP HIM!”

Arlian almost made it to the doors, but then something slammed into him and he hit the marble floor, his head impacting on the hard polished stone. His vision swam like he had jumped off a rope and flipped head over end into a river. Struggling, he pushed at the knight atop him as he scrambled for the king’s bedchamber.

Then the doors briskly opened. Something hit him in the head and his vision went black.

“He’s dead!”

“The king is dead?—how can this be?” It was a woman, hysterical in her tone.

“Mommy,” a young boy cried.

Arlian blinked awake.

“No!”

“YOU KILLED HIM!”

“I did nothing of the sort!”

Whose voices were these?

His head was pounding like a drum and his vision pulsed brightly at the center, the edges still dark. There was a terrible crook in his neck.

“You will pay for this!”

Was that… Kandrion?

Smeared blood was discernable on the marble floor. Was that Arlian’s blood? He touched his face and he found the source.

Someone was sobbing. No, half a dozen people were sobbing, some women and children.

Who was screaming?

It was princes Kandrion and Balthazar. He knew the voices well.

“You killed him!” Kandrian shouted again.

“How dare you accuse me of killing father when your assassin lies on the floor!” Balthazar said coolly with a hint of a sneer. “Besides, you have no evidence to back up such an accusation.”

The man was impeccably dressed, his long black hair oiled and pulled into a tight tail. Arlian had always wondered if he was a bastard. He didn’t much resemble his brother’s looks.

He blinked, reorienting himself. The women crying were Princesses Juna, Avla and Serina Devlyn.

“He’s awake.”

A sword point was thrust near Arlian. He moved to unstiffen his neck and back. He couldn’t have been unconscious for very long.

“Leave him be,” Kandrian ordered.

“No,” Balthazar said. “It’s clear what his intentions were. You sent him here, brother. To do exactly what you accused me of! Guards, take him away!”

“You have no right to accuse me of such a thing, Balthazar, when you were last seen with father before he suddenly died—his health was bad, but he wasn’t dying yet—not tonight! And calling the council? Rousing them out of their beds at this hour so lady Jorrissiana could change her vote moments before father died? Is this a plot, brother?!”

“Say what you will. You always hated me, Kandrion.”

Arlian was grabbed by two of the knights and hauled to his feet. They shoved him forward—on his way to a quick execution no doubt.

Jorrissiana? Taken to the King’s Council to vote in the night? Now he knew—knew the plot. Understood why Gracian had been inked as well as his lady.

And now somebody had to take the fall for what happened to His Majesty.

“I said stop!” Kandrion shouted. “Unhand him, you black-clad heathens!”

Balthazar narrows his eyes. “Count yourself lucky, Kandrion.”

“Be assured,” Kandrion declared hotly. “There will be in inquest over this!”

“Inquest all you like. Let’s go.”

They dragged Arlian out of the palace, the sobbing women and the yelling Kandrion left behind heavy oaken doors.

Arlian struggled against his captors. “I can walk, you fucking Schuarist dogs!”

They let up, allowed him to carry himself. Arlian wouldn’t be dragged to his death. He would walk—at his own pace.

“Know this,” Balthazar said, suddenly in his face. “You die tonight, traitor!”

Then he punched Arlian in the stomach. How bowled over, coughed and tried to suck air into his lungs, but it was several moments before his body would allow him to draw in more air.

“Assassin!” Balthazar hissed.

He fell to the paved ground when one of the guards shunted him forward.

“Up, you traitor.”

“Schuarist filth,” he gasped.

Then the guard kicked him in the stomach.

Unafraid to die, his heart only ached because of Mariel. Arlian couldn’t leave her now—not now of all times, before the world died.