“Yes, Your Highness.”
Rezkin stepped over to the doorway, reached into the corridor, and grabbed the woman passing by, placing a hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. He held her squirming form tightly as he looked at the guardsman. Then, he nodded toward the doorway. “If your training is superior to that of any other kingdom, then defeat him.” As Rezkin finished speaking, a man entered the room in a rush. Just before the man met the guards, Rezkin said, “Do not kill them.”
The man looked at him, and then the guards were upon him. The woman suddenly stopped squirming as she peered up at him. Rezkin removed his hand from her mouth but kept hold of her.
“Um, Your Majesty?” she said.
“Greetings, Mage Threll,” he replied.
Coledon and Brandt hurried into the room on Farson’s heels but stopped when they spied Rezkin, who nodded for them to stay back. Then, all four of them watched as Farson battled the four royal guardsmen. The room was too small and heavily furnished to draw swords, and Farson quickly divested the men of their knives. The commander put up a good fight, better than Rezkin would have expected. Farson was breathing heavily and had a bloodied lip by the time he put the last one down. Two of the guards were unconscious, a third was wrapped tightly in the drapery, and Commander Tinen stared up at them from the floor where he lay at the tip of Farson’s dagger.
Farson looked at Rezkin and said, “Was that really necessary?”
Rezkin shrugged. “They needed a lesson, and you need the exercise. You are getting slow.”
“I think he is getting old,” said Brandt.
Farson’s look promised Brandt retribution during their next training session. He gave the commander on the floor a warning glare then straightened and sheathed his knife. “Perhaps I am only pretending, to throw you off guard.”
“That is absurd,” said Rezkin. “You could be infirm and on your deathbed, and I would not drop my guard.”
Farson pointed at Tinen, who was glancing between them, waiting for permission to rise. “What did these men do to deserve a lesson?”
Rezkin said, “They thought they had superior training.”
Farson shook his head and then stared at Rezkin’s head.
“What is it?” said Rezkin.
“You are wearing a crown.”
He nodded. “Moldovan insisted. I am to attend court twenty minutes ago.”
“Moldovan does not hold court,” said Farson.
“He does today.”
Farson glanced at Mage Threll. “Are you going to release her or hold her all night?”
Rezkin released the mage, who spun to look at him. She said, “It looks good on you.”
“The crown?”
“All of it,” she said, her cheeks turning pink.
Coledon looked at him quizzically. “Why did you grab her?”
Rezkin nodded at Farson. “It was the easiest way to get him to reveal himself.” Then, he looked down at the commander. “You may rise. Four of you could not defeat one of him, yet you think to protect me?”
Tinen’s Ashaiian was decent but heavily accented as he spoke. “It does not seem that you need protection from him. He is your man?”
Rezkin shrugged and said, “He would kill me if he could.”
“Not that you would stay dead,” grumbled Farson.
Mage Threll looked at her uncle with disapproval and then cast a spell to wick the blood from his face.
Rezkin turned to Tinen, who was eyeing them all warily. “Gather your men”—he glanced at the unconscious guards—"if you can. We should probably report to the throne room. Boulis will have lost his bet by now and should be there—unless he decided to cast another.”
As Tinen moved to unravel the conscious guardsman, Mage Threll said, “Who is Boulis, and why are we going to the throne room?”
“Boulis is the king’s nephew,” said Rezkin, “and I was supposed to kill him.”
“You failed to kill a target,” said Farson with surprise.
“Are you sure you were not struck on the head?” replied Rezkin. “Of course, I did not fail to kill him. I only failed to see why I should.” Rezkin then strode through the doorway and headed toward the throne room.
Farson caught up to him. “This was a request from Moldovan?”
“Yes, in exchange for the sword.”
Farson narrowed his eyes and said, “What is your reason for not killing him?”
“That is a good point,” Rezkin said, but Farson continued to stare at him. Finally, he added, “You would not approve.”
“Since when do you care about my approval?”
“Not just you. All of you, my people. Outworlders require a better reason to kill someone than convenience.”
Farson said, “So, you are bound by the opinions of others?”
“It is my role as king. Kings should be bound by the will of the people.”
“Few kings feel that way,” said Farson. “What if a king must make a difficult decision for the good of his people?”
“Then, the king must be willing to suffer the consequences of that decision. This is not one of those times. It is too public. I will not allow Moldovan to seed doubt among my people for his personal vendetta.”
Farson did not have time to respond as they filed into the receiving room outside the throne room. The king’s seneschal, who had been overly flustered as he paced about the room, urged the guards to open the door promptly. Without another word, Rezkin strode into the throne room. Farson, Mage Threll, Brandt, and Coledon slipped around the side to stand at the edge of the somber crowd, while Rezkin strode to the top of the dais and stood beside the throne.
“You are late,” grumbled Moldovan after erecting a sound ward.
“I arrived before Boulis; therefore, I am early.”
“He was supposed to be dead,” Moldovan hissed.
“Perhaps you should take that up with your gods,” said Rezkin.
“I expect you to follow through.”
“We shall see. I do not serve you, Moldovan. I will determine if Boulis dies by my hand.”
Rezkin gazed across the sea of anxious, and even frightened, faces. Their flamboyant dress was in stark contrast to the nightmarish room. The women wore colorful, ruffled, high-collared dresses with sleeves that fell to their wrists and skirts that brushed the floor. The men were dressed in much the same manner as Boulis, and everyone wore large hats, making it difficult for anyone behind the front row to see what was happening. For this reason, the people stood on wooden risers that had been installed along the sides of the hall.
Boulis was not there. After another uncomfortable wait, he finally strode through the far door to the throne room. Upon entering, he appeared genuinely surprised. He peered at the gathered people and then grinned broadly as he nodded toward the spectators while proceeding toward the dais. Upon arrival, he bowed appropriately toward Moldovan and then noticed Rezkin. He appeared perplexed but returned his attention to the king.
“Your Majesty, I heed your summons.”
“You are late, Boulis,” barked the king.
“I apologize, Good King. I was delayed by urgent business.”
“Yes, I am aware of your urgent business in the bailey. I see you still have your shirt. Is it all you have left of your family’s fortune?” Boulis’s face turned scarlet to match his suit, but he refused to look at the chattering onlookers. Moldovan said, “If you were not so oblivious, you would have realized that you were not the only one summoned.”