There came a time when final action had to be taken in the matters of Sir Andvburand the Captal of Savernake. To Ragnarson’s regret, Kimberlin had to be hanged. The Captal was more cooperative. After a long conversation with the Queen, concerning Carolan, he was allowed pen, parchment, and poison.
The best physician in Hellin Daimiel was brought in to attend Rolf Preshka. But the man neither improved nor worsened. The physician believed it was a matter of mind, not disease.
Time eased Bragi’s longing for the Itaskian grant. The War Minister wrote that it would be a long time before he could come back. The Greyfells party had grown no weaker. Meantime, Bevold Lif continued his improve-ments. Ragnarson began looking forward to playing big fish in his new small pool.
There would be a respite before bin Yousif again maneuvered him into the role of stalking horse.
III) One pretender
Crown Prince Gaia-Lange was playing in his grand-father’s garden when the hawkfaced man appeared. The boy was puzzled, but felt no fear. He wondered how the dark man had gotten past the guards. “Who’re you?”
“Like you, my prince, a king without a throne.” The lean man knelt, kissed the boy on both cheeks. “I’m sorry. There’re things more important than princes.” He rose, vanished as silently as he had come. The boy’s hands touched where lips had touched. His expression remained puzzled.
Hands and expression were still there when his heart beat its last.
It was another Allernmas evening.
IV) Party kill
Shadow from shadow, a lean dark man momentarily appeared in the room where the wine for the leaders of the Greyfells party, meeting before seizing Itaskia’s throne, had been decanted. He dribbled golden droplets into each decanter.
Itaskia’s morticians were busy for a week.
V) Autumn’s child
Like a black ghost that had come on the wings of the blizzard moaning about Castle Krief, the dark man passed the chambers of the Marshal and his wife, the chambers of the Queen, and entered the door of the Princess’ room. Drowsy guards never knew he had passed. The child slept in candlelight, golden hair sprayed over cerulean pillows. One small hand protruded from beneath the covers. Into it he emptied a tiny box. The spider was no larger than a pea.
The dark man pricked her palm with a pin. She made a fist.
Death came gently, silently. She never wakened.
He murmured, “October’s baby, autumn’s child, child of the Dread Empire. Fare you better in the Shadowland.” For an instant, before he snuffed the candle and departed, a deep sadness ghosted across his face. One tear rolled down a dark, leathery cheek, betraying the man inside.
The End
Glen Cook, October's Baby
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