Chapter 40
CHANGE OF PLANS
KING DOMITAN STRODE THROUGH THE royal forge’s adobe structures, assessing his artisans’ progress. The Asterosian smithy was the finest in Ilistaar. Not even those Brightsea bastards and their self-aggrandized master weapons makers could boast such a fine establishment.
Then again, they were dead. The phantom of a smile pulled at his otherwise granite features.
Even after all these years, contemplating the systematic slaughter of the Albright-Kaine line was almost enough to make Domitan grin like a loon.
Almost. His only regret was that old Magnus Albright had croaked before Domitan could send him the body of the last Bladesinger of Ilistaar and that of her so-called Infallible Aegis.
Instead, he’d settled for interring their corpses in matching stone sarcophagi in a vault beneath the city.
He’d heard rumors that the Brightsea residents favored sending their dead out to sea or scattering their ashes on the ocean wind.
Let the lord and lady rot in a desert tomb, as far from their precious coast as one could get.
Domitan continued his perusal with that uplifting thought.
Before long, the king stopped before a wide vat of black, bubbling pitch. A squat, bulging man wearing a protective mask and a heat-resistant suit stood at the edge of the basin, dumping red-hot chunks of coal into the scorching mix. He stirred the concoction with a massive ceramic oar.
The forge’s overseer paused beside his king. “We’ve added modified titanian to our traditional pitch, sire,” he explained. “Highly flammable. Very difficult to extinguish. This lot could burn an adobe fortress.”
Domitan cut the man a glare. “Considering our great city is built of adobe, I imagine your level of caution in containing such a substance exceeds your enthusiasm in creating it.”
The overseer nodded quickly, chins wobbling. “Of course, Your Majesty. We are overly cautious.”
“Very well. Continue.”
The clash and clang of swords, bolt heads, and armor being crafted rang through the air. Domitan was pleased with the progress. By week’s end, a significant portion of his army would be outfitted, armed, and ready to march. The rest would be prepared by winter.
Outside the armory, archers honed their accuracy with crossbows.
Soldiers sparred in a gated square. Blades were thrown at body-shaped targets.
Provisions were organized, documented, and stockpiled.
Breastplates and helms were polished and fitted.
The efficiency with which his army worked pleased him.
The king’s presence only motivated his subjects to increase their productivity.
What witless ruler said it was better to be loved than to be feared?
A page boy approached Domitan at a run and dropped to a bow before holding out a sealed missive. The king broke the seal on the parchment, waving the runner away. He scanned its contents. What he read did carve a smile into his features.
Tavene’s recovery had progressed more slowly than he’d have liked. But the mender’s letter said she would be fit to travel in a few days’ time.
Cindamar and its pitiful populace were facing annihilation, and they didn’t even see it coming. By week’s end, his army would march. And Domitan’s conquest, an endeavor long overdue, would begin.
Domitan was returning home much later than expected, but with considerably auspicious spirits.
His outings had taken him deep within the military district.
The return route was straightforward, but Domitan decided to wander the less-traveled streets of his city, not yet ready to relinquish his time under the encroaching night sky.
The hint of a chill could be felt in the air, the Asterosian summer evening murmuring its first whisper of autumn’s approach.
In another month, the Saraat Desert’s suffocating heat would have abated.
Domitan would stroll through his capital, the Prima having been returned to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, and another limb having been cut off of the Cozened’s traitorous blight.
Then, Domitan would regroup and go for the head.
Finally, after a lifetime of meticulous ambition and relentless execution, King Domitan, the Head of the Asterosian Crown, would be High King of Ilistaar. Ruler unopposed. Lord of all.
He was still envisioning the breadth of his advancing glory when the outline of a familiar figure snared his attention.
Domitan slowed his horse and peered through the shadowed street.
He thought perhaps he’d been mistaken, the shadows playing tricks on his sight, but then the figure moved, and there was no mistaking that gait.
What was his attendant doing lurking about after sundown?
Domitan silently hailed a passing guard. “Find me the general,” he commanded. “Be quick and quiet about it.” He could handle his attendant, but he wanted Corstow there just in case.
The guard hastened off.
Domitan dismounted and followed Cinah at a safe distance. Something inside him slithered and hissed, urging him to remain undetected.
Cinah wound through alleys and side streets before entering a well-lit tavern.
Domitan concealed himself in an adjacent thoroughfare, wondering if the man had stopped for an ale.
But then, only minutes later, Cinah snuck out the building’s side exit.
The king barely caught the swish of a cloak in the darkness.
You sneaking swain. What are you up to?
He resumed his pursuit.
Half an hour later, deep within a quieter section of the city, Cinah let himself into a nondescript brick storefront.
Domitan crouched in the opposite alleyway.
He was moments from stalking to the door when Markain Corstow appeared behind him.
He didn’t have to tell the general to keep himself concealed.
The man dropped to a squat beside his liege.
“What is it?”
Domitan nodded across the street. “Creed.”
Corstow’s gaze sharpened on the brick structure as though trying to peer through the mortar and stone.
Irritation scratched at Domitan’s insides. “I’m going in,” he growled low.
Domitan’s muscles flexed to stand, but Corstow’s hushed voice paused his movement. “Wait, sire. Look.”
A hooded figure slunk down the street, stopping before the frame Cinah had disappeared through moments before. The figure swung its head left, then right, before rapping a distinct pattern on the door. The entrance cracked open enough for the figure to pass through and then shut again.
Rage, hot and consuming, blasted Domitan. If Cinah had the gall to meet with a secret lover…“I will fucking kill that insolent wretch.”
The last time Domitan had felt such wrath, Cinah had stolen the seal off his desk.
But then he’d branded himself with it, a quiet voice reminded him.
“We should wait, Majesty,” Corstow whispered.
Domitan glared at him. “Wait for what? He’s been caught.” That lecherous, betraying miscreant. Domitan would flay him alive. Dismantle him piece by traitorous piece. He’d been good to Cinah. Too good.
“There may be something yet to gain from this.”
The only thing Domitan wanted to gain was retribution. No. Fuck waiting. No one slighted the King of Asteros and walked away.
Just then, the door reopened. Domitan froze, eyes locked on the hooded figure that re-emerged. They couldn’t have been inside for more than a few minutes. Too quick for a tryst. What the fuck was going on? The figure hastened away from the building.
“Detain them,” he commanded his general.
Corstow stood silently.
“And Corstow? I want answers. By whatever means necessary.”
His general disappeared.
Four minutes after the general departed, Cinah slipped through the doorway and headed leisurely in the opposite direction.
Domitan tracked him back to the tavern, where his attendant stole in unnoticed through the side door.
Twenty minutes and one drink later, Cinah exited the tavern’s main entrance, strolling northwest.
Domitan wasted no time. He backtracked to the avenue where he’d left his charger and raced home. The king was waiting at his private estate when Cinah finally returned, smelling faintly of ale and pub dwellers.
“My king,” he greeted, dropping to his knees.
“Hello, Cinah.”
His attendant remained kneeling, shoulders relaxed, dark face smoothed into a composed mask. “How may I be of service?”
Domitan watched the man with quiet contemplation.
His initial rage had simmered into a strategic calm.
He could question Cinah now, press him for the truth.
But his attendant was clever. He’d become too well acquainted with pain at his king’s urging.
He donned his masks far too convincingly.
No. Domitan would wait for Corstow. As the general said, there may yet be something to gain.
“You smell like a taphouse.”
Cinah’s features rearranged into an expression of ill-concealed shame. “Forgive me, my king. I visited a city tavern.”
“I know. The Morel House.” He studied Cinah closely. The man didn’t so much as flinch. “My stores are well stocked, Cinah. Why sully yourself in a hovel when you have access to the finest casks in all the realm?”
Cinah paused. Domitan could practically hear the cogs turning in his attendant’s mind. “I met with someone,” he began.
Domitan leaned forward in the settee, priceless leather creaking slightly with the shift in weight.
“Not another nefarious meeting with a drug peddler, I hope.” The last time Cinah had a late-night rendezvous, he’d returned with euphorium, a highly illegal aphrodisiac and hallucinogen.
Not that Domitan had minded the carnal encounters that followed.
Cinah hesitated.
“I found that dealer, you know,” the king said, remembering. “I removed his hawking hands and lying tongue.”
Cinah remained silent.
Domitan snapped his fingers. A servant appeared. “Search him.”
The servant rifled through Cinah’s pockets, patting him down. A sheaf of folded parchment was revealed. The servant handed it to Domitan before retreating.
“What’s this?”
Domitan thumbed open the note. Scanned the scribbled contents. He fixed his attendant with a narrowed gaze.
His doorman knocked, entered, and bent to whisper in the king’s ear. He’d only permitted interruption for one condition. Domitan returned his attention to Cinah, and the doorman left.
“Speak.”
Cinah cleared his throat. “It’s a recipe, my king. A delicacy. The man I met with is an accomplished chef. I asked him to prepare a treat. One I felt you would greatly enjoy.”
When Domitan offered no reply, Cinah pressed on. “He owns an exclusive bistro and is very busy. It was difficult for him to meet at an earlier hour.”
A slow smile cracked the king’s stony visage. “Oh? Shall I ask for a private audience? A demonstration of this supposed culinary prowess?”
“My king?”
Domitan stood.
The doors to the king’s receiving room opened, and General Corstow entered.
Behind him, dragged by two additional guards, was the cloaked figure Domitan had witnessed meeting with Cinah earlier that evening.
He’d been beaten and bloodied. The man’s face was a swollen, contused mess.
One leg twisted grotesquely underneath him.
Several fingers were missing, their stumps dripping onto Domitan’s polished porcelain floor.
The guards dropped the man before Cinah, eliciting an agonized cry from the stranger.
Cinah’s faithful, unfaltering mask cracked. What a marvel to behold. Wide, worried eyes stared at the crumpled figure before him. Domitan’s favored attendant’s hands shook at his sides.
The king tilted his head thoughtfully as he gazed upon the man at his feet, attention resting on one hand’s bloody remnants. “I don’t suppose your chef will retain much use for his talents.”
General Corstow nudged the beaten man with the toe of his boot. “Tell your king what you told me.”
The man began to weep, tears leaking from the swollen knot where his eyes used to be. “I’m s-sorry, Cin-nah. My fam—”
Corstow kicked the man in the ribs, silencing his apology. “I said confess to your king!”
Cinah’s dark eyes filled with horror.
The man gurgled, bloody phlegm leaking from his mouth. “I delivered a m-message. Of the…” He coughed. Choking. “Of the Pr…pr…”
Cinah suddenly gripped the man’s shoulder; the only body part that appeared unharmed. “No, Tavor.”
The man, Tavor, shuddered.
“Now, you foul creature,” Corstow demanded, “or your family will suffer for the next half century.”
“The Prima!” he wailed. “Cinah’s man is in Stillwater Wood. He arrived with…a woman. It’s her. It must be her. I know where…p-please. Please don’t h-harm…”
Domitan listened, unmoving, unspeaking, to the messenger’s garbled confession. When the man had expended himself, finally falling unconscious, the king found himself smiling. Despite the agonizing cut of betrayal. Despite the unexpected turn of events. Domitan’s face broke into a feral grin.
He stared at Cinah, the man whose body he’d claimed, whose mind he’d thought he knew, whose loyalty he’d believed he owned. Domitan stared at him and smiled.
“There’s been a change of plans, General,” the king said, eyes never leaving his attendant, still kneeling, still shaking at his feet. “Cindamar will have to wait. We are going to Meress.”