The king had made his displeasure known since that day. Though just eighteen, Destin had been considered a rising star and a favorite of the king’s—until Oden’s Ford. He hadn’t had an audience with Montaigne or an assignment from him since. Destin had little to do but worry that the king might show his displeasure in a more concrete way. Some nights, as he lay awake in the stifling heat of the season they called autumn in the south, he considered fleeing the country.
His father had anticipated that he might run, and issued a preemptive warning. “There’s no going back from that. The king has a long memory, and Arden has a long reach. It won’t be long before the king controls all of the Seven Realms. What are you going to do then—try your luck in Carthis?” The look in his father’s eyes was a threat and a warning and a dare all in one.
And so, finally—this meeting, after weeks of silence. Why now? Destin guessed that the king had reached a decision about his future.
So—what’s proper dress for one’s own execution? Destin wasn’t prone to elaborate attire. If he had been, his father would have beaten it out of him long ago. Still, he knew how to present himself well when the occasion demanded it. Black was always in good taste. He dressed head to toe in fine black wool with leather trim. His shirt bore lace at the collar and cuffs. His boots and swordbelt were plain, but made of the finest leather. His amulet was tucked discreetly inside his shirt, where it wouldn’t be seen, but it would absorb mana’in, the demonic energy that oozed from him, day and night, like the seepage from a sulfurous spring. Best not to fling that in the king’s face, on top of everything else.
Being gifted was a double-edged sword in the south. It made Destin and his father useful to the king, but it also made them vulnerable. The Church of Malthus had a habit of burning uncollared wizards, and the king had a habit of letting them do it. Montaigne viewed the gifted in his employ as a necessary evil.
Destin studied his image in the glass inside his wardrobe, and was satisfied. This will do to be buried in, he thought. Assuming there is enough left to be buried. With that, he went to find his father, who, for once, would be in his apartments.
Marin Karn might be general of the Ardenine armies, with quarters in the palace itself, and estates on Ardens-water and at Baston Bay, but when he was in the capital, he could often be found playing cards and drinking in the common room of the barracks, where Destin always felt out of place.
Destin saluted the brace of soldiers in front of his father’s door. “Can you let the general know I’m here?”
That word was conveyed, and Destin was duly admitted to the first waiting room—the first circle in the maze that would eventually lead to his father.
When he was finally ushered into his father’s privy chamber, he found the general half-dressed, in the process of stripping off his linen shirt. “Fetch me another,” he ordered, dropping the shirt on the floor. “I’ve sweated through two of these already. All of this traveling from the arse-puckering borderlands to the ovens of Bruinswallow will be the death of me.”
Promises, promises. Destin crossed to the wardrobe and chose another shirt, then played valet, helping Karn into it. Fetching a towel, he blotted sweat from his father’s face and neck. Karn slapped the towel away.
“Stop that,” he said. “A man sweats. But maybe you wouldn’t know that.”
Destin could tell that his father was nervous because he was being nastier than usual. Which meant he was worried about this meeting between his son and the king. Worried that his own position was precarious enough without collateral damage from the failures of his son.
At last, the general was committed, laced into his final choice of shirts. Destin handed him his uniform tunic.
“Belt first. Then the jacket,” Karn said through gritted teeth. “Are you ever going to get that straight?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Destin said stiffly. “I don’t often wear a uniform myself, so—”
“Oh, that’s right,” Karn said, as if it had just occurred to him. “You don’t.”
Destin clenched his teeth. They could never seem to have a conversation without a dig from his father. Instead of the army, Destin had chosen the clandestine service, which reported directly to the king. Though his rank was lieutenant, he wasn’t a real soldier in his father’s eyes. Plus, his father didn’t like Destin being out from under his direct supervision.
Destin, on the other hand, liked it very much.
The bells of the cathedral church bonged the quarter hour.
“It’s nearly time to go,” Destin said. “Do you have any advice?” That, in fact, was why he’d come. Somehow, his father had managed to survive thirty years in service to this king. He must have developed some sort of strategy.
“Stop quaking like a girl,” Karn said, his usual disappointment plain on his face.
“You are mistaken, General,” Destin said evenly. “I am not quaking. Merely concerned.”
Karn snorted. “If the king means to kill you, you’ll never see it coming. So relax.”
That wasn’t exactly helpful.