Chapter 17

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Edmund stood beside the king’s ornate throne, his expression sour as he watched the doors to the audience chamber swing open. The throne room of the Grand Hall in Starhaven was filled to capacity, the crowds of ornately dressed nobles and courtiers packed shoulder to shoulder along the sides of the long gold and white carpeted central walkway.

All heads turned as the great doors at the end of the hall swung open. Colm Thranton walked in confidently, making his way down the center aisle, head held high. The crowds murmured amongst themselves at the appearance, for good reason. Colm’s scarred, devilish face was a far cry from the normal men and women who made their way into the king’s presence. Some nobles shrank back unconsciously, as if to give him space as he passed.

Reaching the end of the carpet, Colm, who must have been instructed on proper etiquette for such a setting, dropped to one knee, head bowed in supplication to the king.

Edmund scowled as he watched Colm kneel before the throne. A stark contrast to everyone around him, still in his leather armor and weathered cloak, which had at least been cleaned before he’d been allowed to step foot in the chambers. He’d always done his best to keep Thranton out of the public eye, knowing how ill-suited he was for more polite company. And yet, here he was, adding a level of potential trouble Edmund had wanted to avoid.

“Rise,” Serwyn said.

Colm stood, clasping his hands behind him in a manner much more casual than was considered correct. Edmund eyed Serwyn, ready for his nephew, so easily offended by the smallest slight, to say something, ending this charade.

Instead, Serwyn smiled and said, “Well done, Captain. Word has reached us of your swift justice against the peasants currently in rebellion in Kingsheart. You have shown the entire kingdom what fate awaits those who dare defy their rightful king, and corrected an error my uncle has allowed to fester uncontested.”

“I am but a humble servant to Your Majesty,” replied Colm, inclining his head respectfully. “It was my duty to uphold the king’s justice and protect the realm from the spread of treason.”

Edmund’s scowl deepened. More and more lately, his nephew had added small, biting remarks in their conversations and in public, still holding him to blame for the actions of the rabble. Now Colm, whom Edmund had brought in to correct the situation, was getting the recognition for solving the problem. Worse, the mercenary was playing into the role, acting very differently than he normally did. This was a man who would readily sever his own nephew’s head from his shoulders for a few gold coins. Simpering and bowing before the throne was so utterly beyond Colm’s nature, that it instantly made Edmund suspicious.

“You have done far more than your duty,” Serwyn said. “By crushing this rebellion before it could grow, you have earned the favor and gratitude of the crown. The kingdom shall long remember your loyal service.”

Edmund’s scowl deepened further as Colm glanced in his direction, giving a knowing look and a slight smile before saying, “Your Majesty, I must confess, since I was a boy, I have dreamed of being a knight. But due to the low nature of my birth, that honor has always been denied me.”

It was laughable on its face. Not only was the man the farthest thing from a knight that had ever existed, in all of their conversations he’d never given any indication of interest in that direct, whatsoever.

Serwyn, however, seemed to miss the entire byplay.

“Since ascending the throne, I have learned that a man’s worth has little to do with the circumstances of his birth. There are many who call themselves my loyal subjects, barons who trace their lineage back centuries, yet are lax in their duty to uphold the law. Sidor needs more men like you, Captain.”

To Edmund’s shock and outrage, his nephew stood and reached over to the Steward of the Sword, who held the boy’s sword of state, taking the sword by the hilt and pulling the blade free from the scabbard before descending the steps.

“Kneel,” he commanded, stopping in front of the mercenary.

Colm dropped to one knee, head bowed, again following the correct protocol, although where the man would have learned this, Edmund had no clue.

“What is your full name?” Serwyn asked.

“Colm Thranton, Your Majesty.”

“In the name of my forbearers and in the eyes of the Ancients, I name you Sir Colm Thranton, Knight of Sidor, duty sworn to uphold the kingdom with your body, soul and being. Rise, Sir Colm.”

Colm stood, an uncharacteristically genuine smile on his face. “You honor me beyond words, Your Majesty. I shall strive to be worthy of this honor and to serve you and the realm faithfully all my days.”

Edmund seethed as he watched his nephew remount the stairs and casually hand the ceremonial sword to him instead of back to the Steward, as if he were some kind of a lackey. Serwyn settled himself on the throne once more, an amused grin on his face as he addressed the newly minted knight.

“Sir Colm, it is now your duty to see to it that the remainder of the rebels are rounded up and dealt with. I trust you will not fail me in this task.”

“It would be my utmost pleasure, Your Majesty. I shall not rest until every last rebel has faced the king’s justice.”

The mercenary bowed low, his eyes flicking up to meet Edmund’s for a brief moment. The sly smile that played at the corners of his mouth was almost imperceptible, but Edmund caught it and felt his anger boil over. It took every ounce of Edmund’s self-control to refrain from charging down the dais and throttling the man.

He watched as Colm walked confidently out of the throne room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a resounding thud. The room was silent for a moment before the whispers and murmurs of the gathered nobles and courtiers began to build once more.

When he’d heard Colm’s initial report, Edmund had thought he’d finally regained at least some measure of control. He reported back to his nephew that the majority of the rebels had been slain or captured, with the prisoners being marched back to the Starhaven for a very public execution. Of course, he knew that really wasn’t the majority of the rebels, but he’d needed to do damage control with his nephew, who’d become increasingly uncontrollable the longer the peasants were in revolt.

He still did not know how Serwyn had even learned of Colm’s involvement. It seemed unlikely the mercenary would have been able to weasel his way into the king’s good graces directly since, as far as he knew, he was the only connection between the two. The entire audience had been announced suddenly, and had blindsided him completely, with Colm taking the accolades that he’d counted on getting himself to set things right with his nephew.

Now, things were notably worse. He needed a way to restore his control over Serwyn and get the kingdom back in line. And he needed to do it soon.

Port Belmar, East of Lysmir Lake, Northern Lynese

William knelt on the floor of his tent, reading passages from his small copy of the Tome of Remembrance, one of the revered books of the acolytes. Occasionally, he would stop at a section and close his eyes, repeating the passage to himself, focusing on the words and their deeper meanings, as his tutors had taught him to do.

The air in his tent was thick with burning sage, the soot of which he had rubbed under his eyes to help him symbolically see through the veil to the time of magic. William considered himself a true believer, faithful to the Ancients and the acolytes, but he couldn’t help but let his mind wander during these ceremonies.

This time last year, he’d been at the Grand Hall in Starhaven, surrounded by scores of Sidor’s highest nobles as the high priest led the solemn rituals to commemorate the Fall. The pillars holding up the hall’s massive ceiling were wreathed in burning sage, clouds of smoke filling the top of the room but not leaving a trace of soot across the wondrous ceiling. Another gift from the Ancients.

They’d recited the rituals, led by the elder of Starhaven, and listened to sermons about the Ancients, what they had left behind as their world fell, the ideals they had maintained, and what all believers should be doing to uphold those ideals.

Now, camped on foreign soil far from the Grand Halls, or really any of the halls of antiquity except those in Lynesian hands, William performed the rituals on his own. Cleansing his mind and body for the coming year, ridding himself of the evils he’d collected over that time, and recommitting himself in the sight of the Ancients.

He refocused, whispering the names of the fallen, whom he’d pledge to remember each year, building his list. His list of ancestors was still small and growing, but he’d heard some of the older nobles had hundreds of names, taking the entire day of remembrance to recite them from memory. Each name was someone they had committed to remembering and holding close, keeping their flame alive among the Ancients.