Therrador’s face remained grim despite his effort to relax.
“No, they do not surrender,” he said loud enough for all to hear. He urged his horse on forcing Sir Alton to follow.
“Then what, highness?”
Therrador rode through the cluster of knights, allowing them to fall in behind him before he answered.
“An accord has been struck,” he said finally, thankful to be riding ahead so they didn’t see the strain in his features. “There shall be no more war.”
A mumble rolled through the generals.
“When will the curs be retreating from our land, your grace?” Sir Alton asked on their behalf.
“They won’t be.”
Silence. None of the generals spoke: no murmur, no whisper, no grumbles. Shock or surprise stilled their tongues, but only for a few seconds before Sienhin voiced the question surely on all their minds.
“What do you mean, your highness?”
Therrador ground his teeth and forced a breath out through his nose.
“We will open our gates and welcome our new friends.”
A clamor of protest arose amongst the men. Therrador steeled himself and thought of Graymon. The muscles in his cheek bunched and flexed as he clenched his jaw.
“Why, my king? There’s no reason to give the fortress to these dogs. We’re not beaten.”
Therrador reined his horse to a stop so suddenly the others nearly rode into each other to avoid hitting him. He turned in his saddle to face Sir Alton.
“Do you question your king?” he roared, spittle flying from his lips.
His anger wasn’t really for this man but at the distress of having no control. He’d planned to keep this from happening, but the Archon outmaneuvered him. His only hope was to sway them to what must be to save Graymon.
“N-no, your grace,” Sir Alton stammered. “We were wondering why-?”
Therrador’s blade rang against leather as he pulled his sword free and placed the tip to the old knight’s throat. No one made a move for their weapons as they stared in shock.
“Treason,” Therrador said, his voice loud and firm to hide his true feelings. Sienhin’s mouth fell agape, his eyes opened wide. “I should kill you myself for the treachery of questioning your king.”
Sweat broke out on Sir Alton’s brow, but he didn’t reach for his sword, doing so would mean his life. The other generals wouldn’t stand with him against the king, no matter the circumstances. If he so much as moved toward it, the entire kingdom would call for his head.
“Do you wish to die, Sir Alton?”
“No, your highness.” Sienhin’s voice was a whisper for once.
Therrador settled back into his saddle and removed his blade from the knight’s throat.
“I’ll deal with your treachery later. For now, ride ahead. Have them open the gates, tell them to make ready. The generals of Kanos will join us before nightfall.”
“Yes, my liege.”
Sir Alton launched his horse into a gallop toward the fortress. Therrador guessed he moved quickly more to get away than in haste to obey the order. A proud man, the old knight. His family had served kings for as long as anyone remembered. This would damage his pride, something Therrador didn’t want to do, but it would be for the best. With this, Therrador could remove him from the council and replace him with someone of his own choosing.
Of the Archon’s choosing.
He’d have to keep an eye on Sir Alton, though. He could prove a dangerous man or a great ally.
With a click of his tongue and prod of his heels, Therrador urged his steed toward the fortress. The generals fell in behind, silent but for the creak of saddles, the clank of armor and the beat of hooves. Therrador sighed, mouth pulled down in a frown. He’d hoped for happiness once crowned, as though a title would take away the wrongs done him. But there was always someone else to wrong you. His gut knotted.
It will soon be over. For better or for worse.
He sat straight in the saddle, intending to look the part of the conquering hero he wanted and deserved to be if not for the Archon. The ripe plum hanging from the tree of life waiting for him to pluck had shriveled to a prune, wrinkled and uninviting. He closed his eyes and thought of Graymon, but even that did nothing to make him feel better.
Chapter Fifty-Six
A thin haze obscured everything. It was a dream, Khirro knew, but it didn’t look like any of the dreams he’d had in the past months. No tyger, no lake; all that was behind him now, he supposed. What lay ahead?
The cool mist attached itself to his skin, dampening it as he surveyed the nothing around him. He took a step, then another. The mist swirled away from his feet only to rush back in as the air settled. His breath stirred the tiny droplets, sending them spinning in kaleidoscopic patterns of white and gray. There were no sounds. Khirro halted, worried he might plunge from a dream-cliff, or be attacked by Gods-only-knew what. He waited, expecting the dream to resolve itself into something more than damp, eddying fog.
Then the glow began.
It took Khirro a minute to realize it came from him. A dim light which strengthened and brightened, burning away the mist before him without causing him the slightest discomfort. Yellowed grass, dry and dead, appeared beneath his feet. The view before his eyes cleared to reveal a green wall undulating at the whim of the wind.
A tent. I’m in a tent.
The green canvas flapped more violently and sound came to Khirro’s dream: the snap of the wind against the tent, men shouting somewhere outside, and a whimper. He turned his head toward the last noise, not knowing whether he should expect man or beast, or which he’d prefer.
The boy lay curled on a bed of straw, shivering each time the wind shook the tent walls. He glanced at the door flap like he expected someone to come through at any moment and Khirro realized it wasn’t the wind that scared the lad. Khirro stepped toward him and the boy pulled himself into a tighter ball, gripping the wooden dragon he held closer to his chest.
“Can you see me?” Khirro asked.
The boy froze, eyes darting about the tent, but they held no recognition, as though he’d heard something but couldn’t discern where it came from or what it was. Khirro crossed the dry grass and knelt on the straw beside the boy.
“Who are you?” he said, a breath of wind against the boys cheek that only made him cringe the way the wind shaking the tent did. “What are you doing in my dream?”
Abruptly, inexplicably, the boy’s shivering ceased. He sat up and looked directly into Khirro’s eyes, stared right through them. Seconds passed. Khirro didn’t breathe. The boy hugged the toy dragon tight, then held it out before him, offering it. Khirro took it. He knew he held the toy but couldn’t see his hand. He was invisible to himself, so he must be to the boy, too. A smile tugged at the lad’s lips, but it quickly faltered.
“Please help me,” the boy said, his voice a whimper, and Khirro knew that was what he had to do. He stared into the boy’s sad eyes, wishing there was something he could do for him now, in the dream, but knowing it was only that.
The temperature in the tent dropped suddenly. The boy grabbed the wooden dragon from Khirro’s invisible grasp, fell back onto the straw mattress and curled into the fetal position, eyes clamped shut. Khirro straightened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He stood and turned to face the tent flap and whoever or whatever had come through.
The first thing that struck him was the woman’s beauty. Her golden hair cascaded over her black cloak almost to her waist, a startling contrast to her dark brown eyes. But there was something un-beautiful about her eyes: a hardness, a cruelty. They were the eyes of someone who’d watch death without flinching, and they bore into Khirro, searching him.