11. Dimitri
11
DIMITRI
Q ueen Idaelia never missed the Samhain festivities. As autumn turned to winter, the queen, who was winter incarnate, brought cold and slumber to the land. Without fail, she sat atop the dais in the king’s own place as a living embodiment of the mother of all nature, a symbol of the turn of the year.
Tonight, the throne was empty.
The king did not deign to sit upon it, though it was his own, for he would not break tradition and risk cursing the changing of the seasons. Instead, it was Rosella who arrived, late and flustered, to sit in her stepmother’s place. She was radiantly beautiful, but a sham, and all who dined within the hall knew it.
There were other notable absences that no one could miss. Thaeus, pleading illness, had already fled, as had some others. It created a flurry of rumours to circle around the room in whispers the king, dining with his sons and daughter at the top table, could not hear. Illness was some of the whispers. Treason others.
“Did you know Lord Khyrion hasn’t been seen for two weeks?”
“Dead and buried already, I hear.”
Dimitri let them gossip. He knew full well that Khyrion, one of his own now, had fled, also under the pretence of illness, to avoid the king’s wrath, spooked that the king would somehow discover the very crimes Dimitri had blackmailed him with.
Toroth brooded at the top table, where a cloud of darkness held court. The conversation quieted around him, for his foul mood dared anyone to speak just one word he did not like. Dimitri sat in silence, too, listening and observing—as Toroth had intended, but for his own ends. It was clear Saradon’s Curse was at work. Some of the absences were the result of cowardice, nothing more. Other ailments were inexplicable, including the queen’s. She had never been struck down by any malady. Dimitri knew what would happen next, if Saradon, and the tales of his first rising, were to be believed.
Idaelia would wither away, her magic dwindling until, at last mortal, she would die. Elfkind could not survive without magic in their blood, so intimately were the two bound. It had been easy, at first, to imagine death changing the court. But faced with those he knew dying, whether he liked them or not, Dimitri did not entirely know how to feel.
Dimitri caught the subtle beckon, the curl of Toroth’s finger, to attend him. He hurried to the king’s side, bending toward him. “Yes, sire?”
“I like it not. All these missing faces? It is no coincidence. Who plots what, Dimitrius?”
“No one before you, sire.” Dimitri’s words held truth, in a way, for he stood beside the king, not before him. He suppressed a grin at his duplicity. “They are fearful of the rumours of a sickness sweeping the city. They can talk of little else.”
Toroth clenched his jaw. “I would know more. This is unlike ought I have seen before. Never has my court been so empty when all are ordered to remain by my side. You must ascertain the truth of the matter, Dimitrius.”
“Of course, sire.” Dimitri bowed. Glee bubbled up inside him—Toroth had no idea he had orchestrated it all, and he would have no idea what struck him.