Only the Bold. Морган Райс
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would see. He stood toward the front of the room, where he could be seen by everyone there, as close to the king as possible. Even so, his eyes seemed to be following Genevieve, daring her to make a mistake in the dangerous game she was playing.
“Jani will return soon,” Genevieve said to herself. “I will remember everything until then.”
She had to hope that the spy who worked for her sister had gotten back to Sheila. With the information Genevieve had sent, maybe Royce would be able to win this without all the deaths that the coming battle promised. Genevieve had already sent information about the seaborne assault that would be coming from the north. Now, she hoped to be able to find something that would help them to win outright.
“Tell me about our flotilla,” King Carris said.
A man in what looked like expensive versions of sailors’ clothes stepped forward, jewelry adorning him that looked as though it had been stolen from a dozen different sources.
“We are ready and waiting to carry your forces, my king. Just as soon as we are paid.”
“Money is traveling from my treasury as we speak,” King Carris promised.
Genevieve found herself wondering if there might be some way to sabotage that delivery. If she could get that information to Sheila, then it might be possible to arrange for the money to be stolen, or at least delayed. She was about to find a reason to excuse herself from the hall when she stopped, feeling a wave of something like cold spreading through her.
It wasn’t the kind of cold that had anything to do with the physical world, though. Instead, it felt to Genevieve as though something papery was whispering across her soul, and she found herself turning automatically toward the door. Everyone else in the room did the same, moving as one mass to face the figures who walked in together.
There were a dozen of them, gray-skinned and shaven-headed, although several of them had beards, or golden chains wound around their skulls, or tattoos in the shapes of mystical symbols. They wore deep gray robes, some with the hoods up, and most of them looked around the room with piercing eyes. The one at their head was old enough that he had to walk with the aid of a staff, leaning on it with every step. His eyes caught Genevieve’s for a moment, and Genevieve shuddered involuntarily.
“Who are you?” King Carris demanded. “And why are you here, in my court?”
“We are the priests of the Angarthim,” their leader said. “We see all that must be, and we send the Angarthim to ensure that it happens as it should. I am Justinius, highest of the priests.”
“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here,” King Carris said. “Or why I shouldn’t have you killed.”
“We are here because your cause is ours, King Carris,” Justinius said. “The boy named Royce can never be allowed to be king.”
“You’ve come across the sea to tell me this?” the king demanded, and for a moment, Genevieve thought he might react with all the anger she’d seen before, when he’d been killing prisoners himself.
“We looked into the futures, and we saw the destruction of our order in the rise of Royce as king,” Justinius said. If he was scared of King Carris, he didn’t show it. “We sent one of our Angarthim to kill him, but somehow, he has failed us.”
“So you’re failures?” King Carris demanded.
The air rippled, and in that moment, it seemed to Genevieve that something was standing beside her; something with claws and teeth and hunger. It took everything Genevieve had not to scream. Many of those there were not so brave. Several drew blades, and one man fell, clutching his chest.
As suddenly as it had come, the sense of creatures there faded, leaving the Angarthim priests standing still and deadly looking.
“We are not without power,” Justinius said. “When the time comes, we will bring that power to your aid.”
He moved to stand beside the king without being asked, while the others formed a line in the first rank of the nobles. No one tried to argue.
Genevieve thought that might be it for the audience, but she saw King Carris collecting himself with an effort.
“What else?” he demanded. “What other news is there? What news is there of my enemies?”
A messenger came forward, visibly shaking. “We have news of Royce, my king,” he said. “He travels the villages, recruiting the common folk to his cause. They are calling him an ancient king returned.”
“Then they are fools,” Lord Carris said. “And what is Royce trying to raise in the villages? An army of farmers?”
The nobles laughed, but not all of them. Some of them obviously understood that numbers would count, and Genevieve, at least, knew how hard people would fight to protect their homes.
“Still, knowing will be useful,” King Carris said. “It will tell me which villages are filled with traitors, which must be destroyed and which can be rewarded for their loyalty.” He looked around. “Have no doubt, this is a fight, not just against a usurper, but for our whole way of life. Years ago, we fought to overthrow Philip, and all his ways. We fought against a world where a man could claim kingship because of some dictate of magic, rather than because of the suitability learned from birth by a true noble. Will any of you go back to that? Will you?”
As the nobles roared their response, Genevieve began to see how King Carris had managed to become a king. He had the charisma to move people, and the ruthlessness to kill those who stood against him. It was a dangerous combination.
“Now, go to your tasks,” King Carris said. “And—”
“My king,” Altfor said. “There is one more thing.”
“What thing, Duke Altfor?” the king asked. Genevieve saw her husband preen at the use of his title. She wondered if he noticed the king’s impatience.
“A gift has come for you, my king,” Altfor said. “From Lord Aversham. I met him at the gate.”
“What gift?”
Altfor gestured to the door. As it opened, Genevieve’s heart leapt into her mouth. This wasn’t some collection of priests, wasn’t the deathly fear that had come with the Angarthim. This was worse.
Moira was there, along with a noble and a collection of knights. They pushed a figure in front of them, bound and bruised by violence, and Genevieve recognized Garet instantly. He stumbled, and one of the knights kicked him, sending him sprawling forward. The man at the lead of the procession offered a courtly bow.
“Your majesty.”
“Lord Aversham, what have you brought me?”
“I have brought to you what Lady Moira has brought to me,” Lord Aversham said. Genevieve’s fingers twitched as he urged Moira forward. A part of her wanted to rush out and strangle her one-time friend for all that she’d done. This… this was worse than the rest of it put together.
“This is Royce’s brother,” Altfor said. “Or at least one of the boys he was raised with. He was seeking to subvert lords to Royce’s cause. Only Moira’s quick thinking brought him to Lord Aversham, who is loyal.”
“As you are loyal, Altfor,” King Carris said. “You have my thanks. And you, Lady Moira. Now, guards… take this boy and put him in chains. I want to know everything he knows.”
“I’ll tell you nothing,” Garet said.
“Oh, you will,” King Carris promised. “Once the hot irons are applied to flesh, people talk quickly enough.”
The guards stepped in, grabbing Garet. They dragged him away, even though he struggled, and Genevieve’s heart broke as she had to watch it. It was even worse watching the way Altfor moved over to Moira, putting an arm around her out in the open as if Genevieve weren’t there. Altfor looked Genevieve’s way, and he smiled cruelly, clearly knowing exactly what effect his actions would be having on her.
Genevieve fought not to show any reaction, in spite of the