the king’s priorities.
When the wind had died down from the aircraft, Rai knelt beside Iris’ body and placed his hand lightly on her forehead. Presently, her eyes opened. She gazed at him a moment, confused. “It’s over,” he said. “It’s okay.” Momentarily, she was relieved. Then a blast of anger rushed across her face. Before he could react, she had punched him in the jaw.
“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” she shouted. “You said—” Her throat became choked with tears and she had to stop. Rai touched her face and she slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Would you listen for a second of your life?” he asked affectionately. “I didn’t kill you. I knocked you out, and I’m sorry.”
“What?” She was staring at him like she hadn’t understood a thing he said. “But I was—” She fell silent. Then she said, “I’m an idiot.”
“You were just afraid.” He helped her sit up. “I wasn’t going to show you my magic.”
“I didn’t want to see it.” She reached up and touched the spot where her fist had collided with his face. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I was expecting it.”
Iris grinned. Sighing, she slumped down against his chest. “Can we go home now?”
“Where’s home?”
The girl looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I have to bring you home to my father. I promised him, didn’t I?”
“I’m not sure this is what he’s expecting.”
She laughed. “He’ll get over it.”
---
The news from the returning squadron of pilots was both incomprehensible and very bad. The necromancer had been cornered, but then lost. There was some sort of immense destruction. Inexplicably, the boy was dead. Steward Tarnslen tried his best to make sense of the report, but despite his diligence, the pieces refused to fit. He had the distinct feeling that there was something he hadn’t been told.
Making his way toward the throne room to deliver the dissatisfying conclusion, Tarnslen rehearsed the words in his head, which was something he did only rarely. But this was such a delicate matter that he knew he had to navigate carefully. If mishandled, the results would be disastrous.
He would soon find out that it no longer mattered.
As was customary, the steward knocked on the throne room doors. Unlike usual, he received no answer. A baseless feeling of dread spawned in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the king is in his chambers, he thought, and it crossed his mind that he ought to check. Still, the throne room had always been Serberos’ favorite place; given the state of his mental health, it was unlikely that he would have left. Holding his breath, the steward reached out, putting his weight against the enormously heavy carved doors. They gave. It was not a good sign.
At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. None of the rich ornamentations were disturbed, none of the tapestries askew, none of the rugs rolled up at the corners. It wasn’t until he looked at the throne that Steward Tarnslen realized what was wrong.
Positioned between the arms of the throne, in the same place he had been for the past six days, was Serberos, King of Volikar. But even from his current distance, Tarnslen could tell that he was dead. Though his eyes were open, they had long since turned glassy, and the wrinkled skin of the old sovereign’s face was slack against his skull. In the middle of the throne aisle, Serberos’ chief steward, his most devoted servant, stopped.
He knelt.
He prayed.
---
Florien Deleone looked up from the newspaper as his daughter and the man she’d brought home instead of treasure entered the room. “Old King Serberos’ funeral is today,” he remarked, folding the
When the wind had died down from the aircraft, Rai knelt beside Iris’ body and placed his hand lightly on her forehead. Presently, her eyes opened. She gazed at him a moment, confused. “It’s over,” he said. “It’s okay.” Momentarily, she was relieved. Then a blast of anger rushed across her face. Before he could react, she had punched him in the jaw.
“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” she shouted. “You said—” Her throat became choked with tears and she had to stop. Rai touched her face and she slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Would you listen for a second of your life?” he asked affectionately. “I didn’t kill you. I knocked you out, and I’m sorry.”
“What?” She was staring at him like she hadn’t understood a thing he said. “But I was—” She fell silent. Then she said, “I’m an idiot.”
“You were just afraid.” He helped her sit up. “I wasn’t going to show you my magic.”
“I didn’t want to see it.” She reached up and touched the spot where her fist had collided with his face. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I was expecting it.”
Iris grinned. Sighing, she slumped down against his chest. “Can we go home now?”
“Where’s home?”
The girl looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I have to bring you home to my father. I promised him, didn’t I?”
“I’m not sure this is what he’s expecting.”
She laughed. “He’ll get over it.”
---
The news from the returning squadron of pilots was both incomprehensible and very bad. The necromancer had been cornered, but then lost. There was some sort of immense destruction. Inexplicably, the boy was dead. Steward Tarnslen tried his best to make sense of the report, but despite his diligence, the pieces refused to fit. He had the distinct feeling that there was something he hadn’t been told.
Making his way toward the throne room to deliver the dissatisfying conclusion, Tarnslen rehearsed the words in his head, which was something he did only rarely. But this was such a delicate matter that he knew he had to navigate carefully. If mishandled, the results would be disastrous.
He would soon find out that it no longer mattered.
As was customary, the steward knocked on the throne room doors. Unlike usual, he received no answer. A baseless feeling of dread spawned in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the king is in his chambers, he thought, and it crossed his mind that he ought to check. Still, the throne room had always been Serberos’ favorite place; given the state of his mental health, it was unlikely that he would have left. Holding his breath, the steward reached out, putting his weight against the enormously heavy carved doors. They gave. It was not a good sign.
At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. None of the rich ornamentations were disturbed, none of the tapestries askew, none of the rugs rolled up at the corners. It wasn’t until he looked at the throne that Steward Tarnslen realized what was wrong.
Positioned between the arms of the throne, in the same place he had been for the past six days, was Serberos, King of Volikar. But even from his current distance, Tarnslen could tell that he was dead. Though his eyes were open, they had long since turned glassy, and the wrinkled skin of the old sovereign’s face was slack against his skull. In the middle of the throne aisle, Serberos’ chief steward, his most devoted servant, stopped.
He knelt.
He prayed.
---
Florien Deleone looked up from the newspaper as his daughter and the man she’d brought home instead of treasure entered the room. “Old King Serberos’ funeral is today,” he remarked, folding the
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