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Authors: Justin DePaoli
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history of clashes with minor families in nearby provinces, but he’d always send a few outfits of cavalry to deal with the problem, never the full weight of his impressive army.
He was readying himself for war. Or more accurately, Pristia was readying him for war.
“Pristia,” I said, “you know her well?”
“The queen? No, not at all. I’m an officer of the Red Sentinels, not a member of the court.”
“So you don’t have, oh… feelings of love or devotion or any of those sappy emotions for her?”
With squinted eyes and a cocked head, he asked, “What are you getting at?”
“She needs to die.”
He pushed his mug away, groaned and went to stand. “I can’t hear this. I can’t listen to this sort of—” He wanted to say treason. It lay at the tip of his tongue, but instead he swallowed it and replaced it with “this sort of talk.”
I grasped his wrist and yanked him back into the chair. “Your queen is a conjurer.”
He blinked, allowed the word to register in his mind, and then closed his eyes. “I knew you had an ulterior motive for being here.”
“She’s got your king by the balls, or by the mind, really. And I think she’s responsible for Vileoux Verdan’s disappearance.”
“You’re whacked,” he said. “Straight out of your mind, brother. Completely whacked.”
I ignored him and continued on. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know what the endgame is. Won’t have a bloody chance to figure that out, either, if we don’t free the most powerful king in the world from her grasp.”
He threw up his hands and stood. “I’m done.”
“Anton! I need your help.”
“Done. Goodbye, Astul.”
“I’ll prove it you,” I said.
He licked his chops and chuckled. “I’ve gotta hear this. How do you prove that the queen of Erior is a”—he chuckled again and rubbed his temples—“a conjurer?”
Just before I could explain the details of this glorious plan, a bizarre hush fell over the tavern. Silence among drunks is about as common as singing among mutes: it takes no small miracle for it to occur. Well, a miracle, or, as I discovered, the appearance of a king.
Braddock Glannondil waddled into the tavern, flanked by a contingent of the Red Sentinels. Been a while since I’d seen that puffy face, those blubbery arms and fingers full of heavy rings.
The floor planks cried under his weighty frame. His crimson cloak dragged behind him as he hobbled through the red-faced drunks who fanned out in respect, or fear.
I hid my eyes behind my mug and swore silently. The jackal himself staggered toward me, a hunter sniffing out the scent of his prey effortlessly.
Anton stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. His jaw shivered as the lumbering footsteps behind him thudded closer.
“A brotherly chat?” Braddock asked, his weathered voice stabbing inside my skull like a harrowing headache. He slapped his hand on my brother’s shoulder.
“Lord Braddock,” my brother said. “I was…”
“Going to bind his hands and bring him to me?”
Anton swallowed. His brows twitched. “Yes, my Lord. Of course.”
I rose from the table. “Leave him alone, you fat fuck. You wanted my head, and now here I am. My brother doesn’t have a part in this.”
A wicked grin split Braddock’s lips. “The truth is much more interesting, Shepherd. Every morning the roosters crow, and on this morning, one of them told me I might find you two here. Brother and brother, planning a coup. I’m afraid your old friend, Rivon, swears allegiance to me now.”
Betrayal needled itself into my flesh, numbing the tips of my fingers, sucking the feeling from my toes, wringing the air from my lungs.
“Are you afraid?” Braddock asked. “Afraid to die? Don’t be. I’m not going to make good on my promise to string my banner up through your guts. Rivon suggested a much better idea for punishment.”
“Are you going to torture me?”
Braddock pointed to himself innocently. “Me? No. But those I
He was readying himself for war. Or more accurately, Pristia was readying him for war.
“Pristia,” I said, “you know her well?”
“The queen? No, not at all. I’m an officer of the Red Sentinels, not a member of the court.”
“So you don’t have, oh… feelings of love or devotion or any of those sappy emotions for her?”
With squinted eyes and a cocked head, he asked, “What are you getting at?”
“She needs to die.”
He pushed his mug away, groaned and went to stand. “I can’t hear this. I can’t listen to this sort of—” He wanted to say treason. It lay at the tip of his tongue, but instead he swallowed it and replaced it with “this sort of talk.”
I grasped his wrist and yanked him back into the chair. “Your queen is a conjurer.”
He blinked, allowed the word to register in his mind, and then closed his eyes. “I knew you had an ulterior motive for being here.”
“She’s got your king by the balls, or by the mind, really. And I think she’s responsible for Vileoux Verdan’s disappearance.”
“You’re whacked,” he said. “Straight out of your mind, brother. Completely whacked.”
I ignored him and continued on. “I don’t know why, and I don’t know what the endgame is. Won’t have a bloody chance to figure that out, either, if we don’t free the most powerful king in the world from her grasp.”
He threw up his hands and stood. “I’m done.”
“Anton! I need your help.”
“Done. Goodbye, Astul.”
“I’ll prove it you,” I said.
He licked his chops and chuckled. “I’ve gotta hear this. How do you prove that the queen of Erior is a”—he chuckled again and rubbed his temples—“a conjurer?”
Just before I could explain the details of this glorious plan, a bizarre hush fell over the tavern. Silence among drunks is about as common as singing among mutes: it takes no small miracle for it to occur. Well, a miracle, or, as I discovered, the appearance of a king.
Braddock Glannondil waddled into the tavern, flanked by a contingent of the Red Sentinels. Been a while since I’d seen that puffy face, those blubbery arms and fingers full of heavy rings.
The floor planks cried under his weighty frame. His crimson cloak dragged behind him as he hobbled through the red-faced drunks who fanned out in respect, or fear.
I hid my eyes behind my mug and swore silently. The jackal himself staggered toward me, a hunter sniffing out the scent of his prey effortlessly.
Anton stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. His jaw shivered as the lumbering footsteps behind him thudded closer.
“A brotherly chat?” Braddock asked, his weathered voice stabbing inside my skull like a harrowing headache. He slapped his hand on my brother’s shoulder.
“Lord Braddock,” my brother said. “I was…”
“Going to bind his hands and bring him to me?”
Anton swallowed. His brows twitched. “Yes, my Lord. Of course.”
I rose from the table. “Leave him alone, you fat fuck. You wanted my head, and now here I am. My brother doesn’t have a part in this.”
A wicked grin split Braddock’s lips. “The truth is much more interesting, Shepherd. Every morning the roosters crow, and on this morning, one of them told me I might find you two here. Brother and brother, planning a coup. I’m afraid your old friend, Rivon, swears allegiance to me now.”
Betrayal needled itself into my flesh, numbing the tips of my fingers, sucking the feeling from my toes, wringing the air from my lungs.
“Are you afraid?” Braddock asked. “Afraid to die? Don’t be. I’m not going to make good on my promise to string my banner up through your guts. Rivon suggested a much better idea for punishment.”
“Are you going to torture me?”
Braddock pointed to himself innocently. “Me? No. But those I
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