6
IAHIR HEARD THE sounds of the approaching army and made a split-second decision that if he was going to kill the High King, the time was now.
He pushed open the door to the king’s bedchamber, thinking that they were very lucky that he’d managed to get two nights in a row on the king’s door.
When he’d first come back, after Marthlis had told him that they were going to kill the king in two weeks’ time, Iahir had checked the schedule, which was posted on a slate board outside of the breakfast room where the kingsguard broke their fast each morning, and noted that he was not scheduled to be guarding the king at night two weeks’ hence.
No matter.
He could trade with someone. It was done all the time.
He noted which guard was on the door that night and went to him.
That guard’s name was Allinhril. Iahir told Allinhril that he was desirous of having a night off a week hence and asked if Allinhril would trade with him, and Allinhril agreed, but only if Iahir took both of his nights, which was why Iahir was here at all.
Otherwise, he would not have been.
The invasion would have happened—and what good was Gathren anyway, because that had been the first offer she and her orc commander had made, that they could tell them when the attack would come, but she clearly had not known when the attack would come—and he would have been asleep in his bed.
The king would have lived, and the revolution would never have come to fruition.
Iahir entered the king’s chamber.
It was a vast room, the royal bed directly in the center, swathed in long canopies of golden threaded fabrics.
Iahir went directly to the bed, pushing aside the fabric that closed the king inside, and there he was, fast asleep, High King Findas. He looked older in his sleep, frailer, his skin hanging loosely from his relaxed features.
Iahir seized a pillow and pressed it over the High King’s nose and mouth. He waited.
How long did it take to smother a man to death?
He did not know, but he suspected it would feel much longer than it actually was, mostly due to the fact that any time anyone paid attention to the passage of time, it felt longer than it was. But also because of the gravity of it.
You are actually doing this, he thought to himself. You are killing this man, this sad and pathetic man, and it is the most cowardly way to kill a man that one can think of.
Outside, the boom of cannon echoed loud and threatening.
Findas’s eyes snapped open. He looked up at Iahir, and his expression was one of wounded rage.
Iahir pressed more firmly down on the High King’s face.
Findas began to struggle. He flailed his arms, scrabbling at Iahir’s hands where they held the pillow.
Iahir swore under his breath. Then he swore out loud. “May Ornhil, goddess of the dawn, forgive me,” he said, and then he let go of the pillow, yanked a dagger out of its sheath on his belt and slid it into Findas’s temple.
It went in very easily, like slicing into butter. It made a sort of squelching sound, too, which was a bit like butter. Maybe like stabbing an animal, actually.
He thought he would have knicked the bone there, but he’d somehow—by luck?—gotten the exact right spot, and simply slid right in there.
Findas spasmed. Choked. Burbled. Flailed more, as his eyes bulged.
Maybe Iahir hadn’t found the right spot after all?
No, no, it was because the blade was in there, holding everything together, likely. Iahir knew about this. Had seen people bleed out when arrows were ripped free.
He yanked the blade out of Findas’s head.
The High King let out a shriek.
Blood poured out of his head, all over his pillow, all over his orange hair.
And then Findas was still.
Iahir looked down at the dead man.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He wiped the dagger on the canopy fabric.
“Fuck,” he said again.
He put the dagger back in its sheath.
“I’ve just done that,” he breathed.