Kiranrao burned with anger and hatred. The empire he had created around the trading hub was unraveling. How had it happened so quickly? How had the Arch-Rike managed to outmaneuver him so? His breath was quick in his ears. A bold move—an assassination—would shift the tide. He was certain of it. Isn’t that why Tyrus had yielded the blade to him at last? All his talk of a fool’s errand into the Scourgelands was a feint. Tyrus wanted the Arch-Rike dead. He wanted the King of Wayland removed. He had held the blade tantalizingly as bait until Kiranrao had snatched at it.
He nearly collided into an approaching Paracelsus and shifted his path just in time, almost cursing. That was sloppy. It was unlike him to be sloppy. Kiranrao was no fool. He was still the wealthiest man in all the kingdoms. His fortunes may have begun a landslide, but he would rally them again. The Arch-Rike had coffers enough to plunder. So did the King of Wayland. He would regain every ducat he had lost through this farce of war. Kiranrao’s lip curled into a sneer of anger. He shuddered with the emotions. The Romani were being systematically hunted down and slaughtered, yet they bore the blame for starting a war when they had never so much as lifted a dart to hurl. The hypocrisy was galling. Romani poison could not injure the army for the Arch-Rike knew the cure and every victim was quickly remedied. Well so be it then. The course of history would change on this night. The King of Wayland had a young wife and a little boy. They would grieve the loss of husband and father. And then he would spit in their eyes.
There it is. Go quickly. The guards at the front are Outriders. Easily dispatched. He will likely have a Kishion as a personal bodyguard. He will be no match for us.
Kiranrao went to the far side of the pavilion, where he anticipated the shadows were gathered like berry bushes. Instead, tall poles wreathed in blue flame were set into the ground on each of the four corners of the pavilion. They cast a brilliant hue around the entire pavilion and filled the air with a steady plume of white smoke.
He studied the pavilion shrewdly, looking at the seams, the tent stakes, the curving poles, and pennants fluttering from the top. Voices murmured within, discussing, undoubtedly, the progress of the siege of Havenrook. Kiranrao boiled with fury. This night would be spoken of in frightened whispers. No one would ever again risk the wrath of Kiranrao.
He was impatient to be finished.
Studying the hem of the pavilion, he saw the widest opening, the fringe tugged down by stakes. It was narrow enough that a man could slide under if a stake was pulled up. He glanced at them all and felt the blade nudge him toward the weakest one. He nodded and stalked forward, a wisp of night himself.
After dropping to one knee, he tugged at the tent stake and it came up effortlessly. He heard the fabric stretch softly, the pressure removed from the cords fastened to the stake. There was a pungent smell in the air, an unfamiliar one. Wrinkling his nose, he dropped low and laid himself down on the ground, parallel to the skirt of the pavilion. He saw furs covering the dirt floor, plump cushions, a few ironbound chests and an armor rack with the king’s armor hanging from it. The helm with the white plume was especially well crafted.
A few soldiers were gathered around a hide-bound stool, sharing some plans with the man seated on it. The King of Wayland, his goatee flecked with streaks of gold and rust, his hair long about his shoulders. He was a handsome man, except for the receding hairline, and his nose was a bit too bulgy. But he had a charming smile and a reputation of ruthlessness that had finally been confirmed. Kiranrao would enjoy killing him. He stared at him, waiting for the pulse from Iddawc revealing the man’s weakness.
None came.
Kiranrao stared at the man, the covenant King of Wayland. Something about him felt…wrong. The gloved fingers stroking his beard were the best money could buy. His chain hauberk was fringed with intricate gold trim along the collar and sleeves—another fortune. There was a necklace of some sort around his neck. A Druidecht talisman? Kiranrao could not tell. He nodded as the men continued to speak to him, treating each with respect and patience.
The king’s eyes flickered to where Kiranrao was laying. He blinked slowly. A small, delighted smile twisted up one corner of his mouth.
Their eyes met.
The blade began to hiss in fear and fury in his grip. It caused an ache to rush up his entire arm. He nearly dropped it, feeling the hideous sensation inside his flesh, as if a thousand grubs were wriggling beneath his skin, trying to burrow into his bones. He almost dropped the blade. But he did not.
That one look told Kiranrao that it was a trap designed for him and that he had blundered his way into it. Rolling away from the pavilion, Kiranrao made it to his feet. Soldiers appeared from the dark.
“He’s over there, boys. Look at the shadow on the ground. Aim at the shadow!”