Chapter 22
Basten
The following morning, we stand on the rooftop of Honor Tower—me, Rian, and Kendan—looking out over the pillaged city of Old Coros.
Smoke rises from burned-out husks of shops that careless sentinels torched, drunk on both whisky and power.
The air is fetid with the stench of weeks-old rotting food scraps and animal shit.
A shiver ripples over my skin, pulling it tight with anger.
Old Coros isn’t my hometown. Hell, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been here. There was a time when the people here, the streets, the buildings meant nothing to me.
But now I wear the crown.
It is my home.
And nothing pisses me off more than someone making a mess of what’s mine.
“Okay, you clever ass,” I mutter to Rian from the corner of my mouth. “Now’s your chance to prove you’re worth more than those rusty shackles binding your hands.”
Rian slides me a droll look as he raises his bound hands toward the row of parapets, rattling the very shackles in question. “The second, third, and sixth parapet. That’s the signal.”
I pierce him with a heavy look of doubt, unwilling to deal with any more of his lies.
“Don’t trust me?” he says wryly.
I don’t even dignify that with a response.
His lips curl in a raking smile. “How are things going with your wife, by the way?”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
Rian shrugs, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his jacket with his bound hands. “Marriage is the art of hiding your secrets better,” he quips. “At least, that’s what my father used to say.”
I narrow my eyes at him—he’s just trying to get under my skin.
Begrudgingly, I take his word for it and signal to the soldiers to begin hanging sheets from the parapets that Rian indicated.
They’re black sheets, Rian’s signature color. He swears up and down that this is the plan he established with his generals, the Cold Coins. If he hangs black sheets from certain parapets, they’re to call off the siege.
I run the fabric between my fingers as a soldier walks back carrying it, and grunt. “Shocked they aren’t white. You’d be the spineless kind to use the color of surrender.”
Rian scowls, Kendan flicks his gaze between the two of us like we’re warring children.
“Can we get on with it, please?” Kendan mutters.
I signal to the soldiers, who bind the sheets with ropes and hang them from Honor Tower. It’s a windless day, and the sheets hang heavy, like bodies at the gallows. Honor Tower stands high over the rest of the city, designed to be visible from every quarter, a shining beacon.
Which means the Cold Coins can’t miss our message.
“Now,” I say. “We wait and see if they still obey their master’s call.” I slap Rian on the shoulder.
It’s tense as we stare down at the courtyard below, where our soldiers have barricaded the castle gates. At sight of the sheets, sentinels camped out on the opposite side rush to pick up their weapons, already on alert and ready should a fight break out.
But they’re only infantrymen—it’s the Cold Coins who will make the call.
“It’s an old tradition, you know,” Kendan says as we wait, motioning to the sheets. “To use hanging sheets in code to send a signal. They did it in King Byrne’s reign.”
“I know,” Rian snaps, irritated. “Why else do you think I did it?”
Kendan raises an eyebrow. “You mean you were actually paying attention in our tutoring lessons? Could have fooled me. You and Lore spent more time snickering over drawings of naked ladies than the ancient texts.”
Rian smirks, his eyes wistful. “Wonder if we still have those drawings.”
I smack him on the back of his neck, sending him reeling forward. With his hands bound, his balance is off, and he nearly stumbles right off the roof before catching himself on a flagpole.
“Fuck, Basten!”
“March yourself to the stairs,” I command, pointing to the courtyard, where a flurry of tense activity is breaking out. “I think your generals are about to pay us a visit.”
I make Rian walk ahead of me, giving him a good jab in the ribs whenever he slows, as we make our way down to the courtyard. However, as soon as we step out into the sunlight, my jesting stops.
Now’s the time to be a king—not Rian’s tormenter.
Even if it’s so damn fun to.
I pause at the entrance to Raven Hall for a squire to help me fasten my scabbard and shield—heavy, official weapons that are meant to blind my opponents with their riches. I shift uncomfortably under their weight.
“How about I trade you for that bow and arrows?” I say to the squire, pointing to a simple wooden bow in the weaponry stockpile.
Kendan leans in and murmurs heavily, “May I remind you that you’re no longer hunting to put venison on the dinner table, King Basten.”
I groan—I see why Rian was always so irritated with his older brother—but relent.
“Keep it on hand, eh?” I say quietly to the squire, who nods with big eyes.
I stride out into the courtyard, and here, at least, I feel like I belong. The stockpiles of weapons. The hastily erected tents, gaunt soldiers with sleepless eyes. I might as well be in an army encampment in Mag Na Tir Forest, not a palace.
At my appearance, the royal soldiers snap to attention. I have to give them credit—for as exhausted and malnourished as they are, they manage to present a semblance of order.
“King Basten,” each one says, bowing his head as I pass.
There’s commotion on the other side of the gate, where the Sentinels part to allow their three generals to approach.
I use the term “generals” loosely: Two are meathead former swordsman-for-hire I know from the fighting ring. Mallik and Gaez. Brutes, despite their golden armor. The third is a mean, wiry little gray-haired spy named Boone.
The notorious Cold Coins.
I stride straight up to the gates, puffing up my chest like a charging wild boar, my hand showily resting on the heavy iron sword at my side.
I stop six feet from the gate, far enough to avoid a thrust blade. Kendan follows behind me, dragging a reluctant Rian along with him.
“Generals,” I bare my teeth, hissing out the word. “Let me introduce myself, because it’s been a while since we served together. Basten Valvere, King of Astagnon, though I believe you once knew me by a different name. Wolf Bowborn?”
Gaez leans forward to spit as his response. The man reeks of cheap brandy.
I smile inwardly, because he just made this a lot more fun.
I grab Rian by the shoulder and drag him, stumbling, to the gate. “Maybe you’ll recognize him, then, eh? You were stupid enough to choose this ass for your leader, and now he’s given you an order.”
I point to the black sheets dangling from Honor Tower.
Gaez squints theatrically as he looks over Rian. “Can’t tell who that is under all the bruises. Could be anyone.”
“And those sheets?” Mallik cuts in. “Nah, don’t remember any signal about sheets.”
Rian’s hunched posture explodes as he hurls himself against the bars, swiping a hand through to try to grab the general by the neck. “You lying bastards! You know it’s me!”
The three of them step back in feigned surprise, holding their hands out helplessly. “Rian? That really you?” Boone says.
Mallik shakes his head, breath heavy with booze. “Nah, can’t be, rumor has it Rian fled to Duren.”
Gods help us, Mallik is even drunker than the others.
Gaez grins wolfishly at the other two. “This is just a nobody.”
Rian garbles a furious growl and lunges again, but this time, Kendan intercepts him, grabbing both shoulders and yanking him back hard enough to drag his boots through the dirt.
“You can’t even control your own fucking temper, let alone command your so-called army!” Kendan snaps, his voice low but scalding. “The army that was supposedly loyal to you!”
They grapple—Rian twisting in his grip, Kendan holding fast.
“You think you can hold this city without me?” Rian spits at Gaez, breath ragged, straining against Kendan’s grip. “You’ll lose control in a week.”
“Done plenty well without you so far,” Gaez answers, casually picking dirt from his nails. “Figure, why not keep up the party? The Cold Coins are famous here. All the wine, cards, women we want.”
“Because everyone’s terrified of you,” Rian blusters. “You’ve throttled them to within a few days of starvation!”
He manages to tear free of Kendan and grips the bars, pressing his busted face to the gap.
In a low, poison voice I know all too well, he threatens, “I put you where you are. Gave you the keys to this city so you could safeguard it for my return, not pillage it. Do you know what happens to those who cross a Valvere? The last man who tried ended up on the sharp end of a—”
“Enough.” I slam my iron shield against the bars, silencing him.
I spare a few moments to scowl at the generals, then direct my attention to the sentinels behind them.
“Golden Sentinels,” I announce, loud and resounding.
“Your disgraced leader, the erstwhile king—” I jerk my head in Rian’s direction “—is done playing at wearing a crown. He’s hung the black sheets, the signal to surrender.
As your new king, I command you to lay down your arms, return control of the city back to me and my royal army, and kneel before me.
Do so, and your treasonous actions will be pardoned.
Refuse, and be strung up alongside those sheets, right next to the Cold Coins. ”
A few sentinels pitch their heads up to look at the high parapets of Honor Tower, probably imagining swinging there by their necks.
I have a modicum of sympathy for them. Once, I was a Golden Sentinel myself, so I know that half of them are just farmers who had a bad crop and needed coin.
There’s a tense moment where no one quite seems to know what to do. One sentinel starts to shrug out of his bow strap, as if to surrender, but no sooner does he lift the strap over his head than General Mallik swipes a crossbow from a nearby fighter and aims it square at his chest.
He lets a bolt loose, killing the man.