Chapter 7 #3
“To see the treatment of the slaves with my own eyes. I’ve also traveled outside the capital and spoken to the tenants and farmers in other cities and townships.
Should I have spent the last five months courting eligible Ladies instead?
” He unleashed his most derisive smirk. “Local gossip in lieu of adult conversation won’t prepare me for ruling Perean. ”
Dimitrios learned long ago that true success and loyalty started with hearing from the workers themselves, not from accepting word of mouth at face value. Maybe that was a simpler task while managing a vineyard, and maybe it would be impossible to hear from everyone as king, but he would try.
“Last we spoke, you intimated that you’re prepared to make sacrifices for Perean. Some might suggest your loyalty still resides in Wairia.”
“I miss my home and family; I won’t deny that. But I made a choice to come here, and in a way, I’m already sacrificing a part of myself in doing so.”
“Mihail Vidalatos sacrificed his dignity and his life for his people.”
“And now you want me to do the same, is that it?” Heat steadily rose from his chest and up his neck. “Should I move into the tower now or later?”
“That’s not what I—”
“My dignity is on full display every time I have to speak with the staff, or members of the Royal Guard, or literally anyone with the smallest semblance of power and duty. I’m a goddamn joke inside these walls.”
“And yet, you stay.”
Dimitrios fisted his hands. “And I stay.”
Stavros’s entire demeanor relaxed, and all the apprehension clouding his eyes before vanished like smoke, leaving behind a sharp glint. With a small tilt to the mouth, he waved away an approaching platter of fruit and bread. “Come with me. Somewhere a bit more private.”
The air shifted. Lightened.
The inquisitor seemed different now. He was not the same man who had toyed with his patience and probed for weakness these past weeks. That man had been careful, measured. But this?
This was something else. A test, perhaps. A game Dimitrios hadn’t realized he was playing.
Stavros had been looking for something in him. And whatever it was, he had just found it.
Dimitrios let the inquisitor get several steps ahead before following, his pulse a slow, heavy drumbeat in his ears.
They climbed stairs to a balcony overlooking the main hall. The few courtiers who’d taken the available seats up here were well out of earshot from where Stavros stopped. He gripped the marble balustrade, jaw muscles pulsing.
“You were right to be concerned about the current state of affairs,” Stavros said, his tone much too low for casual conversation. He kept his attention on the people down in the hall. “Leonidas would like me to prolong my decision further, but I see no need.”
Dimitrios rocked back onto his rear foot. This was the change he’d sensed minutes ago, a sudden shift in Stavros’s allegiance. “What was all that just now, then? What has all this been about?”
Nearby, a member of the Royal Guard positioned himself several feet away in front of a large tapestry, his attention on their surroundings.
The inquisitor faced Dimitrios. “I knew Mihail—as much younger men, of course.
He was passionate about his future rule of Perean.
Did you know he wanted to bring our people and those of Soterra and Otuvia under a single banner?
He understood the strength of unifying our lands and the prosperity we could all share.
“Now, Otuvia has nothing and no way to protect itself from the ravages of Perean and Soterra. Their people are starving so that we might profit off their hard work.”
Several feet beyond the stationed guard, a young man poured wine into a crystal goblet, nothing but a specter to the laughing pair of women he served.
This was the world Orestis built and surrounded himself with.
Oblivious people with the majority of the nation’s wealth at their fingertips.
Blind to those they would say held no value.
“As for Soterra,” Stavros continued, “Titos is no fool. I suspect he intends to take Perean, whether that’s by force or with Princess Alexandra’s claim to the throne, but you and I both know he doesn’t need her.
Orestis did his job well by alienating us from our strongest allies and weakening our forces. ”
Dimitrios stepped into the empty space beside the inquisitor and gripped the railing. On the dais below, the councilmen continued to drink and converse in hushed tones. Was this how they ruled his lands? Drunk and in plain view? Did they take anything seriously?
“Am I too late to fix things?” he asked.
“I hope not.”
“What’s Leonidas’s end goal? What was the purpose of dragging out your decision to name me king?”
“That, I do not know. I suspect he intends to open the way for Titos and his forces. In exchange, Titos could name him Steward of Perean. It’s the closest he could possibly get to being king.”
Just as they’d stripped Quintus Gregorius of his royal title nearly four decades ago and named him Steward of Otuvia.
If that was the case, what were they waiting for?
A shrill scream tore through the hall below, followed by several others.
Courtiers tripped over themselves for the exit, and servants froze in place, horrified by the chaos erupting on the dais. Blood sprayed gruesome lines and drenched rich fabrics.
No less than ten men outfitted in servant garb surrounded the councilmen with blades.
They must have acted as one to catch the five councilmen unaware.
While one assassin stabbed through the spine, another sliced through necks.
Some reached over the shoulder from behind to stab into the chest and stomach.
King’s Guard sprinted out of their positions, but they were already too late.
“My God,” Dimitrios whispered.
The entire council was dead.
Every single man who held the fate of Perean in their hands was gutted and lying in pools of spilled wine and blood.
Perean had no king. No council. Only a room full of corpses and a throne waiting to be taken.
Stavros arced abruptly toward the railing with a grunt—a knife was lodged in his back.
The male servant behind him pushed—
Stavros caught Dimitrios’s eye for the briefest of moments, a whole host of unsaid words shouting from the void, there, then gone in a flash as he toppled over the balustrade, head over foot.
Dimitrios gripped the hilt of his sword and turned to face the inevitable attack.
The servant kicked him square in the chest, forcing the air from his lungs and slamming his back into the marble railing.
A sharp pain seared through his spine, but he freed his sword in time to block the arcing swing for his throat, the blade coated with Stavros’s blood.
A sword erupted through the assassin’s stomach, and blood dribbled from the man’s gaping mouth. His bloody knife toppled to the floor only seconds before his body.
The man of the Royal Guard flicked his sword, sending a line of sprayed blood across the marble floor. The man was older than many of the guardsmen he saw around the palace. A decade older than himself, at least. Gray and balding. Thick brows that arched high over his hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” Dimitrios said, his throat dry.
The soldier nodded, then glanced down into the main hall. Dimitrios had never seen the room so empty of courtiers, but it looked as if half the Royal Guard had arrived. All the assassins were dead or crawling from their impending death.
The soldier returned his attention to Dimitrios. “We should get you to your chambers while we clear the palace, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty.
He should correct the man—he was no king. Not yet. But, in lieu of a ruler, who else? Everyone of any power in this god-forsaken country was dead.
“Your Majesty?” the soldier repeated.
Dimitrios forced words to unlock from behind his clenched teeth. “Might I have the name of the man who saved my life?”
The soldier hesitated, then lowered to a knee, head bent. “My name is Lazaros Bareas, and I am yours to command.”