Chapter 58
CHAPTER 58
I stride beside Talan toward the Council of Nobles. My stomach tightens at the sound of Auberon’s voice echoing through the corridor. It booms down the hall like thunder, shaking the windows in their frames. Most of the words are muffled, a deep bass behind the stone walls, but a few cut through. Victory. Annihilation. Enemy.
It’s the kind of speech that would bring down the house in a room full of power-hungry lords, the same lords who will cheer from the sidelines while others bleed for their glory.
When Talan slams through the door, Auberon’s sentence stutters to a halt. The eyes of the twenty or so nobles turn to us. Auberon stands at the head of the table, his polished golden crown shining on his blond hair.
He glares at Talan with irritation. “You’re late. Several days late. Drunk again, were you? Sit down. We were discussing the attack.”
Talan glances at the single empty chair. “There’s only one seat, and Nia will be joining us.”
“This isn’t a woman’s place,” Auberon hisses, never meeting my eyes. “None of my women ever stepped foot in the council, neither my mistresses nor my wives.”
“Well, their time with you was always cut short. You laid them all to rest under Brocéliande’s soil, so I imagine that would make attending rather difficult, but Nia still breathes. In any case, I’ll stand. She can take my seat.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Auberon’s voice echoes off the ceilings. “There are decisions to be made. Our clairvoyant tells us the Pendragons have fallen, that the humans are helpless against us. This is the moment to strike, destroying the opposition once and for all.”
“Really?” Talan leans back against a stone column. “Why are you relying on clairvoyants and not spies? Because my spies report that a new commander took the reins in Avalon Tower. Someone called Raphael Launcelot. If I remember correctly, you let him escape your dungeons.”
The corner of Auberon’s mouth twitches. “Mind your tone, son. It is of no consequence what beast is in charge there. Avalon Tower is in shambles. They’re weak.”
“But I’m afraid you’ve been neglecting our own kingdom,” Talan drawls. “The famine, the poverty. The resistance trying to kill us. The commoners taxed into the ground to support your endless war.”
“The famine,” Auberon snarls, “is why we are at war. We had enemies within our own kingdom spreading the blight. Now, France is our breadbasket.”
Talan sighs, folding his arms. “It might’ve helped if you hadn’t scorched half the farmland in France. What little wheat we do recover gets lost in your endless push for more territory. It rots before it ever makes it through the portals. Most of our subjects can’t even afford the scraps we have left. And that , Father, is why our kingdom is falling apart.”
A door slams open, and a messenger scurries inside, his face as pale as his platinum hair. “Your Majesty.”
“What?” Auberon snaps impatiently, not taking his eyes off his son.
“There are multiple reports of commoners rising in rebellion. They torched the manor houses of a few nobles in Corbinelle. A legion of…of peasants is making its way to this fortress as we speak.”
My heart skips a beat.
Nivene has done her job remarkably well. She might not have a great finesse for small talk, but she understood that Brocéliande is a tinderbox of anti-monarchy unrest, and all she needed to do was light the spark.
“A few dozen irate farmers don’t concern me,” Auberon says, his voice iron. “Deal with them. Hang them all, stick their heads on spikes, and parade their headless corpses to remind the rest of their place.”
My father would be delighted with that idea. Something else Talan and I have in common.
“It’s not exactly dozens, Your Majesty,” the messenger says apologetically. “The report said the legion approaching the fortress numbers about six thousand. Most well-armed. We think the resistance has been readying them for months, Your Majesty. They have battering rams and many archers, and a few mages and?—”
“Enough!” Auberon roars, finally turning to look at the messenger. “Get out!”
The man flees, shutting the door behind him.
“Well,” Auberon says, his voice back under control. “Looks like we’ll have to postpone our attack on the humans by a few hours after all. First, we need the dragons to get rid of the baseborn rabble, the unwashed swine.”
“You mean your subjects who fund your castle?” Talan says, deadpan. “The people you’re supposed to care for?”
“The people’s main concern should be for their king! The rabble love the humans, you know. I’d bet my kingdom they’re all demi-Fey invading our land,” Auberon thunders. “I’ll give the order straight away. The dragons will torch the demi-Fey knaves on their route here. Any who survive will be used as examples, ripped apart, limb from limb. Once that’s done?—”
Talan cocks his head, his expression one of mock sympathy. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid the dragons are gone.”
This stuns the king into silence.
Talan’s eyes are heavy lidded, and despite the sharp tension in the room, he looks almost bored. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans back against the column. “I sent them away. I won’t unleash hell on this kingdom, and I won’t burn your subjects like you burned my mother.”
“You fool!” Auberon rises from his chair, knocking it backward. “You’ve made things worse. Now we’ll have to use our armies. More men will die because of your lofty ideas. Lord Malleus, send a messenger to your father right away. Your family’s bannermen will have to march toward the capital at once and slaughter the human sympathizers.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be happening, my lord,” Malleus says, his voice trembling. He looks quite like Lord Kahedin, his father. “My father sent me a messenger earlier telling me that his bannermen are…” He clears his throat. “Unavailable.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Auberon snaps, turning his fury on the man.
Malleus cowers. “I…I don’t know, Your Majesty. I’m just relaying what my father?—”
“Lord Aedan!” Auberon whirls. “Get your bannermen here and arrest Malleus. My son as well. And then we will deal with the human-loving peasant mob outside.”
Aedan lifts his chin. “I think I prefer to stay out of this, Your Majesty. Like the Dream Stalker, I have a great aversion to unnecessary death.”
As he speaks, I recall the poisons in his bedroom with a shudder. Man loves his poisons.
Auberon pounds the table. “My son thrives on death. What is the meaning of this?”
Aedan stands. “I tend to agree with Prince Talan. The kingdom has been mismanaged, and that is the cause of the unrest now.”
Every word planted in his brain by Talan long ago.
“This is treason!” Arwenna’s father, the Marquis de Bosclair, gets to his feet. “You will do as our king demands.”
“I will not.” Aedan looks resolute. “It is time to take a stand.”
The marquis’s cheeks turn pink. “Once we’ve dealt with the commoners, I will march my own armies against any noble who refused to obey His Majesty. The king is correct. Any commoners marching on the king are trying to aid our enemies. They’re working for the filthy humans who spread the famine. They’re our enemy within our kingdom, and we must deal with them the way we do any threat to the crown.”
“That’s nonsense.” Ker-Ys’s shrill voice rises. “They’re not helping the humans, and they’re not demi-Fey. They’re just starving. I stand with Prince Talan.”
And here before me, each strand of Talan’s plan weaves together in perfect precision.
Months of whispering dreams into nobles’ ears, of sowing thoughts like threads—now, his schemes stitch themselves into place, a tapestry worthy of Elaine of Shalott’s loom. He’s even managed to construct it so that Ker-Ys has looked like his enemy. For months, he’s been controlling Ker-Ys to oppose him. Now, I realize, it appears that even Talan’s staunchest opponents are siding with him. The threads slide perfectly together.
Shouts and recriminations ring out, echoing off the high ceilings. Altogether, more than two-thirds of the nobles are siding with Talan.
King Auberon unsheathes his sword. At the sound of the metal scraping, the shouts peter out.
“I see,” Auberon says darkly. “This isn’t just incompetence and cowardice, as I’ve assumed. This is outright rebellion.”
Talan looks utterly amused. “Are you about to duel me, Father?”
Auberon’s nostrils flare. “I would destroy you. You are a worthless drunk, a waste of life, but sometimes, a king needs to take a step away and fix problems himself.”
Talan shakes his head and makes a tutting noise. “Not much of a father, and even less of a son. Morgan’s name is etched into every facade in Brocéliande, a lie scrawled across the gates of every tower. That’s the real reason you killed my mother, isn’t it? She remembered Merlin. She knew he was your father. You’ve led your kingdom to believe you were Mordred’s son, that you took the throne after his death. And yet, he still lives in Avalon. And he says you are not his son. All the while, your real father languishes in an oak tree. Tell me, did you even try to free Merlin?”
The color drains from Auberon’s face.
At that, he turns and makes a strange gesture with his sword, and I feel it as he does, space tearing apart, rending a hole in reality. This is how he does it. This is how Auberon opens portals.
“Stop him,” I shout.
But Auberon is already stepping into the portal, disappearing from sight.
The nobles shout, their voices echoing. Some claim the king has abdicated. Others are certain he has left to gather his own forces. One of the lords grabs another by the throat and slams him against the wall. Chaos has erupted in the Council of Nobles.
“I doubt your father is truly abdicating,” I tell Talan.
“He would never abdicate,” Talan says. “He would gather his army to arrest us, but…” He trails off, then meets my gaze. “No, he’s going to kill the commoners.”
I frown. “How, exactly? His forces are still marching back from the portals, and the palace guards aren’t enough to handle six thousand…” The words die on my lips as I realize what’s going on in Talan’s mind.
His jaw flexes. “My father still has a dragon nearby.”
The world tilts. “He’s going to burn them all.”