Chapter 25
Tynan
The knyghts stationed outside the King’s reception chamber keep me waiting for more than two hours.
It’s a fortnight since I arrived at this castle and requested this audience, so I suppose it’s progress to be at least outside the King’s chamber today.
Percyval, Father’s valet, has been attending to my needs and has told me the king is away, although not where he’s gone.
Back when I lived here, there were chairs in this corridor, but I’m left standing. Even leaning against the wall isn’t an option, because I’m surrounded by armed knyghts, treating me like some enemy messenger and not the King’s son.
The knyghts are also blocking my itch to pace, so I use the meditation tricks Saxon taught me to tame my urge to break free from my guards and storm away.
I must see my father, and I must see him today.
Fifteen days have passed since I arrived, but patience is required. The end result will be worth it.
Xendus and Surath left the castle the night we arrived.
Surath said she didn’t feel safe and refused to stay in a place where she might be forced into sexual slavery.
I’m not sure how Surath could be forced to do anything, but I admit that she must have been humiliated at how the women were treated at dinner the night they were here.
The couple were also concerned that the klerick claimed to smell Darkness on them. Does Darkness have a smell?
In any case, the three of us agreed to meet back in the Kapusmar Valley. But, if this audience proves successful and I head back there tonight, I doubt they’ll be there.
I knew I couldn’t expect them to wait indefinitely, so I told them that if I didn’t join them in seven days, they should leave without me. I’ll have to return to camp by land instead of by air.
Surath and Xendus said they’ll do what they can to rescue Saxon if they head back without me, but they have few options. If more people discover Xendus and Surath can fly without riders, they’ll not only put themselves but all the other dragons at risk of shadowdust hobbling.
And if they arrive at camp in their human forms, how will they explain their identities? Even if they aren’t turned away, I can’t conceive how a couple of strangers—one of them female!—could do anything to gain Saxon’s freedom.
It’s possible they don’t even care whether or not Saxon is freed. Surath no longer needs him, and it’s possible they made those assurances to appease me.
The responsibility to save Saxon falls to me.
My father has great power now, but I have the power to influence my father.
Or at least I used to. And I’m determined to free Saxon before Rosomon and Zogar return—which I hope to Othrix will be soon, even though I know that time is passing differently for them.
The heavy door that leads to Father’s chambers opens, and the King’s Marshal steps out.
It’s the same man who served my grandfather as Marshal, yet I’m shocked.
This man, whom I’ve known my whole life—the man who is the head of Khotor’s military, including the King’s Guard—is dressed in garb as simple as an acolyte of Othrix.
The only indication of his high-ranking role is a small row of medals pinned to his chest. And even those are understated, smaller versions of the regalia I remember him so proudly wearing.
“His Majesty will see you now,” Marshal says. Then he turns back to the room and announces me. “His Royal Highness, Prince Tynan.”
The knyghts surrounding me part to allow my passage, and I fight to quiet the swarms of bees and butterflies that have set up house in my mind and my gut.
This man is your father, I remind myself, but instead of taming my nerves, that thought multiplies the flocks of fauna in my belly. Being called before him as a child preceded a beating, but it was me who asked for this meeting.
Father is sitting on his throne, the Head Klerick of Khotor standing beside him.
“You look well,” Father says. “Considering We thought you were dead.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I bow toward him, as I always bowed to my grandfather.
“Well?” the Head Klerick says. “We are very busy. What is your business before Us?”
I turn toward the Head Klerick. “I requested a private audience with my father. You are free to leave us.”
“No,” the klerick replies, without moving a muscle or changing his expression. I swear his lips barely moved.
My father blinks a few times, making me hope that he’ll punish the man for speaking in his stead, but Father quickly recomposes himself and stares at me with indifference in his eyes.
“We were informed that your companions left the castle in the dead of night,” says the klerick. “Without even spending one night.”
“That’s correct.” I widen my stance. They’d hoped to sneak out undetected. Clearly that didn’t work.
“Why would they flee from His Majesty’s generous hospitality?” the klerick asks, his voice dripping with disdain and suspicion.
Does this klerick not remember I am a prince? That my station is far above his? Nothing about this exchange feels natural, and I definitely got off on the wrong foot. Hoping to strike the right balance between formality and familiarity, I choose to land on familial.
This klerick is not the King’s kin. I am the King’s son and should address him as such.
“My traveling companions regret they could not remain,” I say directly to my father, ignoring the klerick. “They had business elsewhere but graciously travelled with me to ensure my safe passage. Xander is very good with a sword.” I remember to use the human name I made up for him.
The Head Klerick shifts. “Your companions, as you call them, were seen heading toward the mountains under cover of darkness. What business might they have in the mountains?”
The suspicion in the klerick’s voice stains the air, but I smile, keeping my gaze on Father and not the ornery goat who’s butting his horns into a family conversation.
“We arrived on dragons.” Again, I direct my words toward Father as if the klerick isn’t there. “We landed in the mountains and housed our dragons there.”
The klerick takes a step forward, shaking with rage.
“That harlot rode a dragon?” He turns toward my father.
“As I have warned you, we must exert more control over that dragon camp. Not one but two females have now mounted dragons. This proves we must slay every dragon, except the minimum number required to maintain the veil.” My bones turn to ice. Every dragon is in danger.
“Sarah is not a dragon rider,” I tell my father. “She’s Xander’s wife, and he brought her with him.” I manage to clarify the situation, without actually lying—beyond using the wrong names.
My father nods, as if this is an acceptable answer, and I assume he thinks that Surath rode on the same dragon as her husband. Father knows very little about dragons or riding—few people do—but the klerick may know more.
“Heretics, all of you.” The klerick’s rage is thick in the air. “Mounting a dragon is blasphemy.”
My insides tighten, but I vow to ignore the klerick and his nonsense. My father is King. The King holds the power, not his Head Klerick.
“When did Grandfather pass to the Great Beyond?” I ask Father.
He shifts on the throne. “It’s now been close to four moon cycles.” He shakes his head but shows no true emotion. Not that I expected much.
I step forward. “Father. I would much prefer to speak to you alone.” My gaze flicks toward the klerick to spell out my meaning.
“It’s been far too many moons, since we last saw each other.
” And clearly much about my family’s circumstances has changed.
“Can’t a father and son share a few words without the presence of a klerick? ”
Father’s jaw shifts. He seems angry, but I’m not sure where that anger is directed. His fingers drum on the arm of his throne. I can’t read him right now but decide to remain silent as Father considers my words. Further attempts at persuasion might make matters worse.
Father turns toward the Head Klerick. “Leave us.”
“But—”
Father lifts his hand, silencing the klerick.
“The King has a busy schedule,” the Head Klerick says. “Do not keep him long.”
Father’s jaw twitches again, but he doesn’t chastise the klerick.
Even I’d be annoyed if someone spoke for me like the klerick just did, and my father— Even before he was King, if anyone spoke out of turn, they’d pay for it with a harsh beating, or worse.
I learned, at a very young age, to clip my quick tongue in my father’s presence.
But the klerick slips out of the room, entering the antechamber that leads to the chapel.
Finally, after days of waiting, Father and I are alone—alone but for the guards and footmen discreetly standing around the room’s perimeter.
When I lived in this castle, I barely took notice of the servants, but now, even though we also have servants at camp, it seems strange to have so many lurking around, and even more strange to ignore them as if they aren’t people.
“Come.” Father beckons, and I stride forward until I reach the base of the three stairs rising toward the platform that houses his throne.
Once there, I clasp my hands behind my back, trying to strike the right balance—not standing at attention, but not slouching either.
“What took the King’s—Grandfather’s—life?” I ask.
My father’s head tips to the side, and his index finger traces the carving of a bear on the arm of his throne. “He was old.”
I nod. But the men in our family are generally very long-lived, and my grandfather was in good health when I last saw him. Very good health.
“May I offer my congratulations on your ascension?” I bow slightly, showing respect.
“You may.” He smiles, just slightly. “It is good to be King. I often thought my father would live forever.” His smile grows wider.
I nod in deference. “And your title. Forgive me, but I don’t want to address you incorrectly. You are King of Khotor?”