CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #2
Aldrich's smile deepened, a predator's gleam.
"Then we dull it. My alchemists, schooled in Empire tinctures, have a draught—tasteless, dreamless.
Slip it in his wine, and his prophecies fade to fevered nothings.
As for the ring, a relic pilfered from a McCloud tomb mimics its pulse; swap it in the coronation rite.
Legitimacy, my dear, is illusion woven tight.
The people mourn Thorgrin, fear the breaches—they crave stability, not another war.
We give them a kingling, guided by the Council.
Holt's ships bring 'aid'—catapults rebranded as Shield-menders.
Garrick's lances patrol the borders, culling beasts and dissenters alike.
Varis proclaims our benevolence in every square. "
Holt grunted, unconvinced, but his fingers stilled. "And the cost? My coffers bleed for this subtlety.”
“They will be replenished in full and far more. It will be our hand on the tiller and the till from now on. But not yet. First, the boy crowns. Then, the puppeteer's strings shorten."
Garrick leaned in, his voice a rumble. "And if the strings snap? Kellan's Guards sniff too close. Proudlock's curse, can we trust them? If the coin doesn't loosen their tongues, Kellan's sword or glowing irons might. If they talk..."
Aldrich waved a dismissive hand. "Loose threads are snipped, Garrick, but let me confirm it for you.” He reached into a pocket in his tunic and retrieved a parchment.
“This arrived but two hours ago from a gaoler in a castle of mine half a day’s ride from here.
I’ll read it to you, though I warn you, he may be a trusted turnkey, but he is no poet. ”
He unfurled the parchment with a deliberate flick, its edges curling like charred leaves, and began to read in a measured tone, masking his disdain for the gaoler’s crude scrawl.
“Lord, done as you said. Garr and Skarn are dead, and Proudlock too, like you wanted last. What do I do with the bodies?”
A stunned murmur rippled through the Hall of Whispers, the torchlight itself flickering as if startled.
“Proudlock?” Elowen hissed, her blood-red nails pausing mid-tap, her emerald eyes narrowing.
“He was loyal, Aldrich—our leash on the Silver’s northern flank.
” Aldrich’s half-smile deepened, unperturbed.
“Loyal, yes, but a loose thread all the same. Proudlock was too fond of his own voice, boasting in taverns, and his greed outstripped his wit. He’d have grown too big for his boots, demanding a seat at this table.
He outlived his use the moment Kenrick’s blood stained the snow.
” Elowen leaned back, her goblet clinking softly against the oaken table.
“And the bodies?” she asked. Aldrich gave another dismissive wave of his hand.
“I’ve already sent word—burn them to ash and scatter them to the northern winds.
No relics, no graves, no ghosts to haunt us.
” His obsidian eyes swept the room, daring dissent, as the shadows on the tapestries seemed to nod in approval.
There was a silence, and Aldrich was preparing to stand up, feeling the meeting concluded, when Garrick leaned across the table, eyes wide with indignation.
"You talk of lose threads, but you are willing to unravel the longest thread in this whole scheme and hang all of our hopes on it!
" Spittle flew from his mouth in his eagerness to speak.
For the first time, Aldrich lost some of his confidence.
“Explain yourself, Garrick,” he said, stopping himself short from asking him to leave the thinking to the rest of them.
“Crowning the boy! It’s madness, no matter how you dress it up,” he declared, the torchlight casting his scarred face in stark relief as he glared at Aldrich.
“He’s got Thorgrin’s blood—MacGil blood, too.
You think we can leash a lion’s cub with whispers and potions?
He’ll break free, and we’ll be the ones bleeding. ”
Holt nodded, his rings glinting as he jabbed a finger.
“Garrick’s right. I’ve sunk fortunes into this, bribed half the Legion, but that boy’s no puppet.
His father’s shadow looms too large, and the people chant his name already.
Control him? Hah! He’ll rally the faithful before your alchemists mix their draughts. ”
Aldrich bristled, clearly unhappy at the turn of events. “Varis, what say you?”
Varis sucked the end of his quill. “My lord, we need to deal in certainties. No matter how I look at it, I don’t see the prince as a certainty. It is a risk.”
“It is all a risk dammit,” Aldrich spat back. “You think it wasn’t a risk killing the king?” He looked round the table, Draven and Varis avoided his eyes, but the others returned his gaze.
“Elowen, tell me you are convinced my way is the way we should tread.”
Elowen pursed her lips. "It is a risk. There is no getting around that. With the princeling out of the way, there is no doubt our path will be smoother."
“Even if the kingdom descends into chaos?” Aldrich fired back.
“Come, come, Aldrich,” Holt said, smiling despite the tension in the room. “Surely you aren’t going to try and tell us now that chaos is a bad thing? It is what we have craved, what we have worked for.”
“But it’s different when our hand is at the tiller,” Aldrich said, but his voice was that of someone who knows his argument has been defeated.
He knew they saw him as the leader, but not in a way that would allow him to dictate their actions, especially in something so pivotal.
He sighed. “Very well,” he said, voice low, reluctant.
“We vote.” One by one, hands rose—Garrick’s scarred fist, Holt’s bejeweled fingers, Varis’s ink-stained palm, Elowen’s blood-red nails. Draven abstained.
“Then it’s decided,” Aldrich said, injecting his voice with some of its former authority. “Guwayne dies.”