Chapter 18
Tynan
The suit of clothes the footmen brought me fit well enough, but they feel strange on my body.
The fabric is rough. The style is very odd too—not like normal Khotori attire, and especially not like clothes worn by a member of the royal family.
I expected fur-trimmed velvet, something with at least some gold piping, but these garments are modestly cut and barely adorned.
The only embellishments are my family’s crest, and the ensign of Othrix, both embroidered high on my chest.
I have seen neither hide nor hair of Wilkins, my former valet, and don’t recognize even one of the four footmen who were assigned to assist me.
Now that I’m bathed and dressed, the men are standing at attention, two of them in front of my door. I will not be trapped by servants, any more than I’ll be ordered around by klericks.
Striding toward them, I flick my hand for them to move out of my way, relieved when they do. It’s not yet time for the evening feast, but I plan to find someone I trust to answer my many questions before I see the King.
They open the door, and another footman is standing outside. “Your Highness.” The footman blocks my path. “His Majesty requests your presence in the dining hall for the evening feast.”
“This early?” The sun set less than an hour ago, making this an unusually early hour for my family to dine.
All five of the footmen follow me out of my chambers, flanking me in front and behind, like I’m a prisoner. Am I a prisoner?
Stopping, I turn toward the footman who seems to be most senior. “Your escort is unnecessary. I know my way around. This is my home.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” He bows slightly. “But we have strict orders.”
“Orders to do what?” My heart is thumping, but I keep my demeanor calm.
“To assist you at all times,” he answers quickly.
The man’s expression houses a hint of fear.
I don’t want to cause him trouble that would lead to his punishment—I know what happens to disobedient servants here—so I concede to having an unwanted escort.
These servants are no real obstacle to my objectives.
Surely, my former valet or perhaps one of my tutors is somewhere in the castle.
I’ll find someone to answer my questions.
Failing that, I’ll head for my father’s chambers after the meal. It’s best I speak to someone before my audience with the King. Father may have beaten me senseless many times, but he’s never withheld information—not as far as I know.
And tonight, I also have secrets.
That reminder makes me feel powerful, and the trepidation that’s been haunting my belly since I walked through the castle gates subsides.
I’m no longer the boy I was when I left here. I am a dragon rider, a man of four and twenty. I will never again suffer a beating at the hands of my father, or grandfather—nor any of my seven older brothers.
Let them try. My skills with hand-to-hand combat and swordplay improved greatly during my time at camp. I have faced the Darkness. I have faced dragons. I can face my father.
Passing their room, I turn toward the door to Xendus’s and Surath’s chambers—Xander and Sarah—I remind myself.
“Allow me, Your Highness,” the head footman says.
I turn toward the servant, catching his gaze for a split second before it darts away from mine.
His reluctance to make eye contact isn’t necessarily a sign of deceit.
I am a prince. I may be ninth in line for the throne behind my father and brothers, but I’m still a member of the royal family.
This servant might fear that meeting my gaze, without express invitation, could lead to punishment.
Some men in my family have beaten servants for sneezing.
The footman knocks on the door. It instantly opens. Xendus and Surath are standing in the center of their room, well away from the door and looking very displeased. Not that I’ve ever seen either one looking fully pleased. Except when they were having sex.
I open my mouth to greet them, but Xendus scowls, shooting me a look that tells me I shouldn’t. He takes his mate’s hand, and they come into the hall, accompanied by their own footmen. The pair step in behind me and, surrounded by footman, we continue down the hall like some kind of formal parade.
Some familiar family portraits and landscapes hang on the walls in this long corridor, but their ornate, gilded frames have been removed, replaced by unadorned wood.
Even stranger, an effigy of Othrix sits on nearly every table and cabinet I pass. The Khotori royal family has always strictly adhered to the tenets—officially—but I don’t recall so many religious symbols lying about, at least not outside the chapel.
We pass a low console I well remember from my childhood. A fine ceramic vase once sat upon it that was my mother’s favorite, and it remained there after she died. I used to touch it each time I passed.
It’s gone, replaced by a candle holder, featuring a large symbol of Othrix.
Two Acolytes of Othrix guard the doors to the dining hall, standing where I’d expect Knyghts of the King’s Guard. Very strange. But as odd as it seems, the acolytes open the door in the same way the knyghts would have done.
But even more familiarities vanish when I step inside the hall. My step stutters, but I stride forward, head high as I scan the room. Everyone has fallen silent, or perhaps they were already silent before I entered. I’m no longer certain.
Long banners, displaying the likeness of Othrix, adorn the dining hall, and the chandeliers are tarnished, as if their gold plating has been rubbed off and they contain fewer candles.
The male members of court are seated at long tables, stretching up both sides of the room and intersecting with the long head table.
This formation of tables is the same, but only men are seated, not one woman, and every man wears a plain suit of clothing similar to my own.
The plates, not yet containing food, are simple in style and formed from what looks like pewter instead of porcelain, and the goblets are also pewter, not crystal or glass.
It’s as if all the trappings of our royal family have vanished. Even at camp we had finer things.
The head table alone is set with the plates and cups I remember.
At the center of the head table sits the King’s throne.
My grandfather’s throne. That, at least, is just as I remember.
The Head Klerick of Khotor sits to the throne’s side, wearing a large head dress normally reserved for services on the holiest days.
But that’s where the familiarities end. Nine other Klericks are seated along the head table, occupying the places of favor, which my family should rightfully be taking. I should be given one of those seats.
Scanning the head table, I don’t see my father, nor any of my uncles. And I see only two of my brothers—both of whom have at least ten fewer years than I do.
Shaking my head, I realize I’ve forgotten these particular brothers’ names. My father took so many wives, and he sired so many sons that I stopped paying attention to the names of the brothers who arrived after I turned ten and five.
A herald appears. “All rise for the King of the Light.”
Unease rushes inside me. The title implies that my grandfather is now king of all Seven Kingdoms. I know Grandfather tried to strike a deal with Rosomon’s kingdom, but has he struck deals with all of them?
My questions multiply, because it’s not my grandfather who takes the throne. It’s my father.
I blink, trying to hide my shock as he sits.
“Prince Tynan.” Father’s voice echoes through the sparsely appointed chamber, which used to contain so much finery. “We were pleased to hear that Othrix spared your life. You may approach and bend the knee before your King.”
Xendus and Surath follow behind me as I step forward and kneel upon a simple wooden platform clearly made for such things.
As respectfully as I can, I bow my head, but every part of me feels stiff, bracing for something—almost as if I’m presenting myself to receive a beating.
For so many years, that was the norm when I was called before Father.
I raise my head. “Father. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”
“Condolences?” Confusion flashes on his face, but then he nods. “Ah, my last queen. Fret not. She was nothing. She failed to produce a son and will soon be replaced.”
I fight the urge to say more, but it’s clear he’s not planning to acknowledge my grandfather’s death—the only reason my father could be on the throne.
Likely he doesn’t want to discuss this in front of the entire court and will save family discussions for when I see him in private.
I certainly don’t mourn the cruel old man. Perhaps my father doesn’t either.
“We accept your condolences,” Father says. “Now rise, so that your travel companion might too bend the knee.” Father frowns. “His concubine must join the other wenches.”
Behind me, both Xendus and Surath audibly react to my father’s words, but I turn to shoot them a warning. While we travelled on foot from the valley, I told them how important it was that they obey the King’s commands—no matter how objectionable—but even I did not expect this.
I turn back toward my father. “This woman is his wife, not his concubine. Do ladies no longer dine at court?”
The Head Klerick pounds his fist on the table, and his plate and those to either side of him, clatter. “Blasphemy!”
I raise my hands, offering my surrender, and turn back toward Xendus and Surath. “Do as he asks,” I say as softly as I can. “Please.”
Xendus releases Surath’s hand, and two footmen lead her to the side of the room. It’s so dark around the room’s edges that, when we first entered, I didn’t notice all the women standing there. They’re all dressed in drab clothes, their heads bowed.
Females never held high standing in Khotor, but they were at least allowed to eat and to talk at court, and they were always dressed in ways that pleased the eye—my eye, in any case. These loose garments hide their shapes and cover them head to toe.
“Bend the knee!” one of the klericks barks, pointing at Xendus. “Bend the knee to the King of the Light or lose your head.”
Xendus shifts his large body down to kneel, and he bows his head, mimicking exactly what he saw me do.
When he fails to rise, I tap him on the shoulder to let him know that he can. I’m proud of Xendus and Surath. It must be exceedingly difficult for them to show deference to my father, not to mention the klericks.
Moments after Xendus stands, the Head Klerick rises from his chair.
“Before we feast, Prince Tynan, please tell us how you survived your time in the Darkness.” His eyes bore into me. “Did your fellow rider accompany you there?” He nods toward Xendus.
“Yes, he was there.” Although Xendus is no rider.
“Your baths did no good. You still both reek of Darkness.” The Klerick’s face distorts with disgust. “Tell me, what did you see there?”
My body tenses, but I hide my reaction. I spent many years hiding my feelings at this court and am well practiced at the sport.
“It was a huge void,” I tell the Klerick. “Very dark. Very grey. The only living creatures seemed barely alive. In fact, I first mistook them for rocks, until they began to moan and move sluggishly along the plains.”
The Klerick nods. “Did your dragons remain in flight? Did they protect you from these vile creatures of Darkness? Did they keep you from becoming infected?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Our dragons landed safely atop a plateau, where there were no such creatures. After the ordeal of crossing, we remained on the plateau for several days.”
“We were told you were gone many moon cycles.” He frowns at me.
“I’m told that time passes more slowly there, so we were gone but days, not moon cycles.
Since we could not distinguish night from day, I’m not certain how many days passed, but as soon as the dragons were prepared to fly back, we returned.
” I’m proud of how closely I stick to the truth, without revealing anything we want to keep hidden.
Xendus growls but doesn’t refute what I said. We rehearsed our stories, in case we were split up for questioning.
“And why did you cross the veil in the first place?” The Head Klerick frowns, his face painted in suspicion.
“We hoped to discover how and why the demons have been breaching the veil.” Again, this answer is rehearsed. Not just between Xendus, Surath and I. Saxon and I also agreed to this explanation, before we flew back.
“And what of the girl?” he asks. “The blasphemous wench reported to have mounted a dragon.”
Disapproving murmurs rise and fall through the room, like the crest of a wave.
“She did not return.” Again, this is the truth, albeit not the whole truth.
“Good riddance,” the klerick says. “The witch got what she deserved, burning in perpetual Darkness. Females are not meant to ride dragons.”
If you say so, I think, but don’t say.
The Head Klerick sits.
“Father, Your Majesty—” I catch my mistake.
“I would very much like to discuss a matter of great urgency with you.” My hope has risen that my quest here could bear fruit.
Given my father’s power, and seeming influence over the klericks, I’m certain he holds the keys to Saxon’s freedom.
I’ll have a better chance with my father, than I’d have had with my grandfather.
“We will grant an audience with you,” the King says. “Marshal will arrange the day and time. Now, the sun has set, and it is high time we feast.”