Chloe came to stand beside him.
There was a lower level of paved stones and spiky plants in gardens that she hadn’t previously been aware of. It was far larger than the terrace, and she guessed it had something to do with the soldiers.
The wide space was revealed to her as she came closer to the rail, until she stood alongside the sun king.
She followed his gaze.
‘No!’ she moaned.
Tomarys was bare-chested and crimson blood covered his torso. His head lolled to the side, exposing his neck. Whip marks covered every part of his skin and his trousers hung in shreds.
His feet weren’t touching the ground.
Looking down, Chloe saw a vertical wooden stake holding him up. It entered his body somewhere between his legs and traveled up through his insides, emerging from his mouth.
‘I watched every moment of it,’ Solon hissed. ‘I made sure it went in slowly. Your betrayal was unexpected, but I understand it, you are my prisoner here. His, on the other hand, was not.’
Chloe couldn’t look on, but nor could she look away. The only man who had shown her any kindness had been given the worst death imaginable. And it was all because of her.
‘He told us everything,’ Solon said. ‘About your daily quests to find more flowers of bliss. He would not say that you planned to increase the dose to cause my death, but to me that is clear.’
Chloe realized that Tomarys had stayed loyal to her even in the face of unspeakable pain. He hadn’t told his torturers about training her in the arena, or about his gift of the amulet that even now hung around her neck.
Then her breath stopped. She felt as if she would be sick. Chills ran up and down her spine.
Tomarys’s head moved and he made a horrific gurgling moan.
He was still alive.
‘Dear gods!’ she whispered. Tears ran down her cheeks and she stifled a wracking sob. ‘Please . . . Dear gods!’
‘Rest in the knowledge that you did this to him, girl,’ Solon said, his low voice sounding somehow self-satisfied. ‘His pain is your doing.’
‘Please—’ Chloe said. She turned her moisture-filled eyes on the tall man beside her. ‘Please . . . Let me go to him. Let me say goodbye.’
Solon tugged on his pointed beard as he mused. He finally nodded to the guards on both sides of her. ‘Take her down to him. Let her see from a closer vantage.’
Chloe was barely aware of being led from the terrace and back through the throne room. Her guards took her outside, near the palace gates, and down a set of steps. Her feet were leaden as she walked, horror in every tread. She passed through a section of palace more functional than beautiful and emerged out into the open once more.
She approached the impaled man and looked up at him.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Chloe said.
Tomarys couldn’t speak; he couldn’t even turn his head to look at her, but she knew he could hear.
Glancing up to where Solon watched from above, she pushed the guards away. She walked forward until just a few paces from her friend.
Chloe knew what she had to do.
She wrapped a hand around her amulet and looked down as if praying. With a click the small throwing knife came free.
Chloe prayed then. For the first time in her life, she prayed to Balal, the god of war, for her aim to be true. She prayed to Aeris to grant her this one act of compassion.
With her eyes fixed steadily on his exposed neck, she drew in a breath. Chloe’s arm whipped down and she released the knife when the point was right on target.
The triangle of sharp steel flew through the air. It sliced into her bodyguard’s jugular and then fell back to the ground with a clang of metal on stone.
Chloe watched, stone-faced and red-eyed, as bright, fresh blood pumped out of the man’s neck, gushing in a torrent. Tomarys’s head stopped moving. His body became entirely still.
She was dimly aware of shouting men, running forward and holding her fast. She kept her eyes on her bodyguard until they dragged her away.
Solon snarled. ‘Throw her into one of the cells beneath the palace while I decide what to do with her.’ He then called out again. ‘My last gift to you, girl. I am assembling the navy. Do you hear me? We sail to war. Soon it will be your beloved father who writhes on the stake.’
39
‘Dion, can you hear me?’
Dion heard Roxana’s gravelly voice. He groaned and tried to nod, but nearly blacked out with the effort.
‘He is very hurt,’ Anoush piped.
‘Really?’ Roxana said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I thought he was just nursing a hangover. Gods, look at your face, Dion. I’ve seen better-looking ogres. You said he got waylaid in the city?’
‘Yes,’ Anoush said. ‘Bandits tried to rob him. I found him and got some men to help bring him back here.’
‘But they didn’t take his bow? First thing I would have taken.’