* * *
It was very late when a knock came at his ironbound door. Theroun was sitting before the fireplace in his armchair. Swirling wine in his goblet, he was staring into the flames, watching bodies burn.
“Come!” He barked, making sure his customary glower was in place.
But it wasn’t the Castellan who whisked in through his door. It was First-Lieutenant Fenton den’Kharel, lithe and brisk, a man any General would have been proud to have as one of his top commanders. Den’Kharel had an excellent reputation, a stunning record of service, and his demeanor was entirely steady. He stood at ease once the door was closed, but it was a military ease, calm and ready.
“Lieutenant den’Kharel,” Theroun glowered from his chair. “This is a very late visit.”
The man nodded briskly. “I know, Chancellor. But I would like to discuss security around the Dhenra and King Therel tomorrow.”
Theroun didn’t sigh, he didn’t show any irritation. It was natural, for the First-Lieutenant to want extra security at such an important event. And since the Captain-General was still in the cells, the man had no one to consult other than the Dhenra herself on such matters. Theroun rose and faced the man, ignoring the vicious twingeing in his side. “Let’s hear it, den’Kharel. What do you suggest?”
“I want a retinue of a hundred on the floor of the Throne Hall for the coronation, and another hundred in the balconies. Twenty close to the Dhenra on the dais. Four right next to the throne, tagged to her person the entire time, even for the procession, including myself. I also want fifty of those present at the Writ signing in the Small Hall.”
This time, Theroun did sigh. It was too late to hide his weariness. A deluge of self-loathing had worn him down all day, and he had needed to take a solitary ride to the Kingswood after his talk with Thaddeus to placate himself. He hadn’t come back until far past nightfall, and since then, had been getting right drunk.
“That’s a veritable army, Lieutenant,” Theroun growled.
“Yes, sir.” The man nodded, a shrewd determination in his steady gold-brown eyes. “But I think the numbers prudent and sufficient, sir.”
“We don’t need that many guards.” Theroun barked. “Therel’s not going to cut Elyasin up and stuff her in a trunk while they’re signing their vows.”
The First-Lieutenant slid forward a small step. It was a careful movement, and Theroun held himself in check, not raising his eyebrows at the way the man’s presence suddenly intensified for no apparent reason. “Your pardon, Chancellor, but Captain den’Alrahel believes the Dhenra is in danger, and I quite agree.” And then, Fenton den’Kharel did something Theroun did not expect. Reaching into the inner pocket of his blue jerkin, he brought out a folded piece of paper, then handed it over, murmuring, “Read to yourself.”
Frowning, Theroun skimmed it quickly. His head snapped up. His scowl was a thing of fury, genuinely surprised as he had not been in ages. A shiver of fury laced with terror lanced through his gut, twisting his damaged side with unimaginable pain. “Is this some kind of fucking joke, Lieutenant?!”
But the First-Lieutenant shook his head, his gaze hard. “No, sir. This is in no way a joke. Hence the tight security around the Dhenra tomorrow. And, I suggest, for the indefinite future.”
Theroun crumpled the paper into his fist, livid at what was written upon it. The walls of Roushenn, mobile! A palace behind the palace! Secret passages probably full of spies watching from every mirror and listening behind every hall! With a growl of battle-rage, he hurled the wad of paper into the fire, where it caught and blazed. Theroun rounded upon the First-Lieutenant. “Who else knows about this?!”
The man shook his head. “I’m not sure, sir. Maybe everyone. Maybe no-one. I don’t know how deep the secret goes, or for how long. Generations, maybe. I have an eyewitness, a Kingsman who was present for the Summons. He saw the walls. And he saw the Kingsmen slaughtered that night, all because of it. We’ve been trying to get his testimony before the Dhenra but she won’t make time.”
A scowl thundered across Theroun's face as rage replaced every emotion within him, making him tremble, making the old wound in his side grip and sear. There were walls behind the walls. Of course. How else could an entire army of people disappear in a single night? Rage seethed through him at the Lothren, who had never trusted him enough to tell him how the disappearance of the Kingsmen had happened. Or that Roushenn had a palace behind the palace.
Another item Theroun had never needed to know.
And then Theroun realized something else, suddenly, that a Kingsman in hiding had come to den’Kharel. A Kingsman in hiding had trusted den'Kharel. He narrowed his eyes upon the Guardsman. Fenton den’Kharel was tidy, the row of buckles on his cobalt jerkin done to the shoulder. He was fit like a keshar, muscle and sinew and nothing else. Those gold-brown eyes were utterly steady. Theroun had thought the man was sinewed and calm because he had been High Brigade, but now he knew better. Fenton den’Kharel was fine-honed Alrashemni Kingsmen steel. The finest fucking blades ever wrought. And a Kingsman had come to him, had trusted him, because they were the same.
Fenton hadn’t changed his posture, but his persona intensified again, the unmistakable feel of Kingsman protectiveness.
And Lhaurent. Theroun pictured how lovely Lhaurent’s head would look on a pike, displayed for the crows to pick. He ground his teeth together so hard they ached, certain to the depths of his gut that Lhaurent was somehow behind it all. Behind the entire Kingsmen disappearance. He had too much control of the palace and he knew it. That's why the greasy bastard always looked so smug, so certain of himself. Because he was certain. That slimy eel had a secret way in and around his massive rain barrel in order to keep tabs on everyone else.
How many times had Theroun been watched in his quarters? How much had Lhaurent studied him, marked him, listened in to his conversations with Thaddeus? Right behind the walls. Every wall. And if he had spies among the servants, servants who knew nothing of those passages, then who did Lhaurent have within the walls? And how many?
Enough to kill two thousand Kingsmen in a single night, somehow…
“Halsos in chains…” Theroun breathed. He stood a moment, grinding his jaw, his teeth close to cracking. The game was up. His hands were tied. Refuse the First-Lieutenant his extra Guardsmen, and he would be suspicious of Theroun when the Dhenra’s assassination came. But permit it, and he was risking Lhaurent knowing that Theroun had betrayed the assassination by allowing too many guards in the hall. Now was the moment to decide, just like decisions came upon the battlefield. Attack, defend, change course, regroup.
Let the pieces fall where they may.
General Theroun den’Vekir took command. He went to his desk, writing a quick sentence on the paper in a hand small enough to be very hard to read from the vantage point of any wall. Disregard everything I say, he wrote. You have your men. Protect the Dhenra at all costs. I never gave you those orders. Captain-General den’Alrahel did. He folded the note, then stepped forward to Fenton den’Kharel, placing his faith in a Kingsman.
“This is for your Captain-General. You may read it and give it to her in the cells. I do not permit any additional Guardsmen at the coronation or the signing. Fifty will do in the Throne Hall, and the regular thirty in the Small Hall. That is all.”
Seething anger burned in Fenton den’Kharel’s commonly placid brown eyes. But he did not tremble when he took the note. At the end of Theroun’s speech, he snapped his well-polished boots smartly and inclined his head. Without another word, the Kingsman spun on his heels, yanking the door open and slamming it behind him, trembling the iron fittings and the lock from the power in his wiry frame.
Theroun took a deep breath, then let it out. Hopefully, den’Kharel would read the note in the next few minutes. Before he sent Kingsmen assassins after Theroun.
I may not be much of a man now, Uhlas. But I will protect your daughter. This isn’t the war I signed up to fight. Fuck Lhaurent, and fuck the Kh
ehemni and their Lothren, may they blister my bones and crow-pick me clean.
Once-General Theroun den’Vekir went to the table, and took a very long drink of wine.
CHAPTER 33 – JHERRICK