"Kapish," Collins said in a small voice, turning his attention back to his meal. As he ate, he wondered how much of their exchange the king had understood and whether or not he found any of it offensive. Abruptly remembering what had brought them to this point in the conversation, Collins attempted to turn it back to his original question. "What does all this have to do with Zylas anyway?"
Quinton and King Terrin traded glances, and the king took up the explanation again. "He had a daughter."
The rest seemed obvious. "A carnivore?" Collins guessed, chest tightening and food once more forgotten. His mind formed an image of the albino standing in stunned silence while guards hauled his little girl away to die, his face a white mask that defined abject, depthless sorrow. He remembered the earlier tears when Zylas mentioned not having a family.
"Yes," King Terrin said.
Collins could not help saying, "Poor Zylas."
The king pursed his lips, head falling. Quinton's jaw tensed, and she wrested the discourse from him again. "I thought the same thing. At first. Then I discovered how many daughters and sons, mothers and fathers died because of his… his junta. His rabid schemes to destroy the Barakhain hierarchy, to ravage the kingdom and the royal family have resulted in so many deaths: guards, his own followers', innocent bystanders'." She tried to catch Collins' gaze; but, this time, he dodged her. "Bystanders like Bill the janitor and Amanda the coed. Like me, almost. And you."
Collins swallowed hard, head ringing. The information he had gained revealed so much he had never suspected, explained so many of his former companions' nudges and lapses. Zylas, Falima, how could you do this to me? He felt like a lost child.
The king's voice was soothing, fatherly. "What happened to the horse, Ben?"
The horse? Collins was momentarily puzzled by the question, and then understanding hit. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened. He means Falima. They know! They know who I am. What I did. "The horse?" he repeated, trying to hide his nervousness. Perhaps he had misunderstood.
"The one who saved you from the gallows," King Terrin said, without malice. "The buckskin who goes by the name of Falima."
"The gallows," Collins repeated, a tingle passing through his neck where the rope had once lain, and a shiver traversing his body. "You…" it emerged in a desperate squeak, "… know?" He added quickly, "Sire?" This did not seem like a moment to skimp on propriety.
"Of course we know," Quinton said. "And unlike the renegades, we're not going to lie to you. Didn't you think Olton would let the king know about a murderer on the loose?"
"Olton?" Collins did not know whether Quinton named the place or an informant. Though it did not matter, he focused on the detail to delay the moment when he discovered his fate. Whether they sent him back to that town or performed the execution here, he would end up just as dead. He wondered why they had not just left him to rot in his cell rather than bring him here to talk to Quinton and the king. Within a moment, he had the answer. Because they plan to get as much information as possible from me first. His manner grew guarded.
"Olton's the town that sentenced you," the king explained. "We'd still like to know about the horse."
Collins could not get past the matter of his future, or lack of one. "Are you going to hang me?"
The king and Carrie Quinton jerked. Simultaneously, they said, "What?"
Collins rose, scarcely daring to believe how calm they remained, how surprised they seemed that he might worry about his neck. "Are you sending me back or performing my execution here?"
"Neither." The king's leonine head swung up to follow Collins' movement. "As soon as Carrie and I figured out what you had to be, I pardoned you."
Quinton added, "Didn't you notice no one was chasing you anymore?"
"I…" Collins started, sinking back into his chair. "I thought we just eluded them."
Quinton's wispy brows rose nearly to her hairline. "Eluded human-smart hounds? Please."
Collins could scarcely believe it. "So I'm not going to be hung?"
"Hanged," Quinton corrected. "The past tense of 'hang' when you're killing someone is hanged. Laundry is hung."
How do you like that? Falima was right. "Thanks. My grammar really is more important here than whether or not I'm flung off a platform so a heavy rope around my neck chokes me to death!"
Quinton's lips twitched at the corners. "Sorry. Just one of those pet peeve things." She added, "If you were actually going to get hanged, I wouldn't have said that."
Collins grunted, still sarcastic. "Of course not. That might have seemed… well… tacky."
The smile became genuine. "Just so you know, if they had to drag you there, you'd be dragged, not drug."
With his life spared, Collins enjoyed the banter. "But a load of laundry would be drug?"
"Dragged, too," Quinton said. "It's always dragged. Drug is a noun or a verb, but the past tense of drug is drugged."
"Not drag?"
"The doctor drag her prior to surgery." Quinton laughed. "Nope, doesn't work."
Though not a part of it, the king smiled broadly at their friendly exchange.
Growing remarkably comfortable, Collins had to wonder whether or not he had been drugged. "Not that I'm complaining, Sire, but why did you pardon me? You didn't know me."
"Ah, but I did." King Terrin turned his gaze to Quinton. "Once we figured you for an Otherworlder, Carrie could innocently explain all your actions."
Collins poked at his food, considering. "I spoke a completely different language." He popped some mashed roots into his mouth, delighted by the flavor. He tasted cinnamon and allspice in a mixture halfway between sugared pumpkin and sweet potato.
"That was a big clue." Quinton pushed her plate aside. "Also, that you made no attempt to hide your crime from the guards showed you had no idea you did anything wrong."
King Terrin reached for the serving bowl of mashed roots.
"You killed and ate in human form. Murder rarely happens like that and cannibalism never."
Though he craved more of the root dish, Collins put his fork down. He schooled his features. "I want you to know I'm very very sorry about what I did. I've suffered a lot of recriminations, tears, and soul-searching to deal with it, and I still have moments of heart-wrenching regret. If I had known-"
The king raised his hand. "You would not have done it. I understand."
"Thank you, Sire," Collins said, this time without difficulty. If his original companions had forgiven him this easily, they could have spared him and themselves a lot of bickering and discomfort. "I don't have the words to express how much I appreciate your understanding."
The king ladled root-mash onto his plate. "You need say nothing more."
As it sounded as much a command as a suggestion, Collins obeyed.
The king sat straighter in his chair, steam from the root-mash twining into his beard. "You have a choice, Ben. You may stay here and become another adviser."
"A generous offer, Sire," Quinton inserted, and Collins wished he had had the chance to say that first.
"Or you may show us the way to the portal so that you and Carrie, if she wishes, may return to your home."
I'm going back. Excitement trembled through Collins. I'm going home. "Thank you, Sire," he said, not voicing his choice because his quick decision to leave might offend the king.
Quinton clutched the front of her dress. "So you know the way to the portal?"
"I-" Collins started, then stopped with nowhere to go from that point. "I… don't you… I mean…"
No one jumped in to help him.
"The way to the portal?"
Quinton's hands sank to her lap.
Collins shook his head to clear it. "Shouldn't be that hard to figure out. It's in a set of ruins on a hill not far from Olton. The guards caught me in a field close by. They should know."
The king and Quinton exchanged glances.