Chapter 17 #2
He ignored the council and the seers, and even Daife. He looked only to his father, who outranked the church and every other living or dead being within the Veiled Realm.
He shook Daife’s grip from his shoulder.
His father hadn’t immediately called for his arrest or his execution. He might as well continue while his head was still attached to his neck.
“What you suggest? Kiel would have succeeded. I will not.” As this treasonous idea took shape within him, Zhaire began to pace again, the stirrings of hope electrifying him for the first time since losing Kiel.
“Even now, I can feel where she is—the exact location. I would need to open my Veilway to reach her. I can be there as early as tonight—if we think they will still be ignorant of who she is by tonight.” He glanced at the seers, who nodded to confirm that their continued ignorance had been foretold.
“This has the best chance of a favorable outcome.”
“Absolutely not,” his father said, his voice seething with outrage.
Zhaire let the outrage wash over him. Seeing Daife standing there, the commander of their armies, begging him with his wide, kind eyes to shut the fuck up, gave him an idea.
He would appeal to them with strategy.
“We are in unprecedented times—an extended winter gave us an extra decade to strengthen our armies and fill our magical silos.” He ticked a finger.
“The Zenaidans are, for the first time, unaware of who their Heir is, and yet, we know. We know, and they do not.” Another tick.
“Not only are their magical coffers nearly depleted, but they are on the brink of war with their neighboring kingdoms …” Zhaire grinned, though he knew he must look outrageous.
He didn’t care. He’d grasped onto this hope, held it close. “We have never been more powerful.”
His father remained silent.
“Every winter, just as we barely begin to feel the boon of our magic return, the Zenaidans complete the cycle ritual and bring forth spring, dooming us to another five hundred years of a half-life.” Zhaire hurried his words, hoping the king’s silence meant he might be considering the idea.
“We pin all our hopes on the prophecy, on our prince or princess to appeal to the Cycle Heir; we hinge everything on this one person. But if we do the unthinkable, if we end the Heir’s life before the Zenaidans can complete the ritual—they will be powerless to stop us from invading outright. ”
Zhaire paused to lick his lips.
The king’s face gave nothing away.
Surprisingly, Daife took up the reins; it made sense that he would grasp exactly where Zhaire was heading with this outlandish plan; it was through his tutelage that Zhaire had learned every bit of strategy he possessed.
“Sire, Zhaire may be onto something here—and he has more than proven himself a master tactician; he’s undefeated in battle.
” He patted Zhaire’s shoulder now, no longer gripping the muscle in an effort to get him to hold his tongue.
“Without their ritual, Desolate Winter will stretch on; while we grow stronger, even more powerful, the Zenaidans weaken. Eventually, we would defeat Zenaida on our own. It is all that stands between us and conquering the entirety of the Veridian Realm.”
Daife was a man of few words, and this was already more than Zhaire had ever heard him say to his king.
Zhaire picked the trail back up. “Without her power, without her legions, it will take longer, possibly even decades, but we will triumph in time. And by the time the next Cycle Heir is born, five hundred years from now, your legacy will be cemented—that it was your unorthodox decree that brought the Zenaidan empire, shit, the entire Veridian Realm, to their knees. Your legacy that brought us back to our true home.”
Zhaire waited, breathing hard. He’d never cared so goddamn much in his life what his father would say. He wished, not for the first time, that he could read the king as easily as Kiel had.
Finally, after an eternity, the king glanced toward the seers, the council.
A few blanched, some shook their heads, others nodded. It seemed the council didn’t quite know how to react to the king’s least favorite son raving blasphemous plans in the throne room.
“You say ‘unorthodox’ … I say mad, reckless, even idiotic …” He leaned back in his throne. “I have not always been a patient ruler, but I can wait a few more decades for my victory.”
Zhaire was about to pull Daife into a triumphant hug, already planning to summon Rook and the Horde, call for a horse, ride to the barracks—they had an assassination to plan and only a few hours to do it—when his father decreed:
“But first, you will honor our God, who we owe our very existence to; you will try to fulfill the prophecy by taking your brother’s place, as he took yours, and you will give it your all to convince the Heir to be on our side.
If, in two months, you have not succeeded, or our seers prophesize that the Heir’s unearthing is imminent, then, on my order, you may kill her. ”
Two months? He was ready to take her life tonight.
“I—” Zhaire opened his mouth to protest, but Daife’s grip once again turned painful, and, while he couldn’t read his actual father, Daife’s face was an open book to him.
He knew what that look meant: Shut up before they take your tongue, whip you for blasphemy, and throw you in the dungeons to rot.
You had a good idea. The king is compromising. Take this as a win.
Zhaire exhaled a breath. One. Two. He’d been trained well and could recognize when one should forge ahead to victory and when best to retreat.
And when one is required to go rogue and orchestrate a solo operation.
He turned toward the door. If he left now, he could be at her location in minutes. He could end her life before anyone could stop him. He could do this for the realm.
He could be branded the traitor if it meant the people’s victory.
“Zhaire,” his father boomed at his back.
Zhaire halted. Turned slowly, keeping his face passive.
“If you fail to give it your all, if you make any attempt on her life before I give the order, we will execute you and your entire precious Horde on counts of treason.”
His Horde was his family. His father knew he would risk his own execution, but he would never risk theirs.
Bastard.
Shame and rage and fury burned hot through Zhaire.
Yet, he leveled his gaze cooly at the council, the seers, his commander, and lastly, his father.
“I won’t disobey your orders, Father. But have it be known that I say this: waiting even one day is a mistake.
As all in this room are painfully aware, I am not Kiel.
I will fail to persuade her, and we won’t stop them from completing the ritual in time.
Spring will come, and it will be you forced to carry the blame. ”
His father sneered then, his voice quiet and calm, all the worse for the words he spoke next. “No, Zhaire. No one carries more blame than you, whose recklessness killed Kiel, the rightful savior of the realm.”