Kanthe stiffened.
What’s this?
The king turned to the fourth member of the group. The figure was as round as he was short, dressed in the white of the hieromonks, but he was no simple teacher. He was the speaker of the Council of Eight, the head of all of Kepenhill.
“Abbot Naff, summon my son and have him brought to my council chamber by the first bell of Eventoll.”
“It will be done,” the man said with a bow of his head.
Kanthe shifted back as the group began to disperse. Frell silently closed the door and keyed the lock. He then herded Kanthe up the steps.
Neither of them spoke until they’d reached the third tier of the school.
“What was that all about?” Kanthe stammered. “Ancient magicks? A great weapon? A godling in bronze?”
“I don’t know,” Frell admitted. “But if that damnable Wryth is involved, it can’t be good. Of late, the Iflelen have grown stronger in the darkness of Shrivenkeep. A turn not unexpected. Too often, words of wisdom are drowned out by the drumbeats of war. Fear stokes direr ambitions, sometimes even in the best of us. And in the worst of us…”
Frell’s words died off.
Kanthe pictured Shrive Wryth. “What are we going to do?”
Frell increased his pace. “First, we’re going to make sure I join you in that council chamber.”
Kanthe stopped. “You’re not planning to bring up—”
“No, we’ll leave the moon to the Son and Daughter for now. Something is amiss in the swamps of M?r. I don’t quite fathom how this all hangs together, but I put little stock on chance and happenstance. Something is stirring. Here, off in Guld’guhl, and now in M?r.”
Kanthe remembered the black missive on the alchymist’s table, wondering again what message had been sent to Frell. He rubbed his throat as he climbed the steps. Like Frell, he also sensed forces just out of sight.
Only for him, they felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
* * *
AS THE FIRST bell of Eventoll died away, Kanthe stood straight-backed before the long council table, as stiff as the finery he had dusted off and the formal boots he had donned after his lyeleaf bath. He’d even curried his dark velvet half-cloak until it shone.
Best play the prince while I can.
He kept his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders back. Before him, the table was sparsely seated. It was as if the gathering in the Shrivenkeep had simply shifted to this stone chamber behind the thronehall. Only Kanthe was relieved to discover that Shrive Wryth had been replaced by Liege General Haddan sy Marc.
The head of Hálendii’s legions sat to the right of the king. Even seated, he towered over Kanthe’s father. The man kept his head shaved, all the easier to don his helm, though Kanthe suspected it was more about baring his scars for all to see, especially the jagged line that cut from crown to jaw on his left side. He was likely prouder of those hard-earned wounds than any ribbon, badge, or medal. The man’s black eyes were always polished flints. It was doubtful his lips had ever formed a smile—at least, not that Kanthe had ever seen.
The only stranger here was a reed-thin man with straw-colored locks who sat a few seats down from the others, as if not allowed any closer to the king. The man’s gaze darted all about, when it was not directed at his lap. His brow shone damply. His raiment was neat and clean, but far from the regalia on display here and looked several years behind in fashion, like the silly ruffles of his shirt.
Kanthe’s father must have noted the direction of his attention. “Vice-Mayor Harlac hy Charmane, from Fiskur across the bay,” King Toranth introduced. “A second cousin to you and your brother.”
The man stiffened, near to leaping out of his seat. He looked from king to prince to yet another prince.
So, a poor relation, one clearly out of place here.
Kanthe noted a small smile of derision on Mikaen’s face. His twin lounged to their father’s left, leaning on the arm of his chair. He had trimmed his gold-blond hair to a skullcap of tight curls, again likely for ease of suiting into armor. He looked far harder than when last the two of them had faced one another. His sea-blue eyes had an ice to them now. He seemed far more a man than Kanthe, no longer the boon companion who chased his younger brother through these halls, shouting and laughing.
In even this way, they had grown apart.
Dressed in his best finery, Kanthe still felt like a coarse chunk of coal before a hard, polished diamond.
Their father spoke again. “Your cousin Harlac has come to us with a tale both strange and tragic. A difficulty that his brother, the highmayor of Fiskur, seeks our help to amend.”
Kanthe heard Frell stir behind his left shoulder. The alchymist had accompanied him here after the summons from Abbot Naff, offering his assistance. Naff had tried to discourage his attendance, but the abbot had no more luck than Kanthe in turning aside the stubborn alchymist.
“What tale did our cousin tell?” Kanthe asked, finally speaking up.
The king leaned forward. “The mayor’s son—who was in his seventhyear at the Cloistery—was slain most brutally. His head ripped from his shoulders by a monstrous M?r bat.”
Kanthe inwardly flinched, knowing any outward reaction would be judged.
“The mayor asks for a force to accompany his daughter back to school, and once there, to rid the swamps of such a savage monster.”
Kanthe frowned. He knew such beasts numbered in the thousands, hunting throughout the swamps and marshes. “How can we possibly know which beast slew our cousin’s son?” he asked, stymied how any just vengeance could be achieved.
“Ah.” The king motioned to the liege general. “I’ll let Haddan elaborate.”
The huge man cleared his throat of what sounded like a blockage of rocks. “We’ll proceed into the swamps with a full century of our forces.”
Kanthe choked back a gasp.
A hundred knights? For a hunt?
But Haddan wasn’t done. “And they’ll be led by a score of Vyrllian Guard.”
Now Kanthe did gasp, which earned a humorless smile from his older twin. The Vyrllian Guard contained the legion’s most elite fighters, battle-hardened with faces entirely tattooed in crimson, both to mark their blooded status and to strike fear into their enemies.
“We will not be hunting for a lone killer,” Haddan continued. “For too long, such monsters have plagued the swamps. We will commence a great hunt, to eliminate as many of the foul beasts as we can over the turn of a moon. If we can’t rid them all, we’ll at least knock them back and give them good caution to ever return to the haunts of men.”
Kanthe felt sick, trying to imagine such a slaughter. As a hunter, he had learned to take only what one needed from a forest or meadow. Wanton killing for no other reason than bloodshed struck him as cruel and heartless. He could not even stomach the steel traps he sometimes encountered. When he did, he would spring them with a branch or stick, lest those sharp teeth imprison and needlessly torture a beast.
Frell stepped forward into Kanthe’s stunned silence. “Excuse me, sire, but if I might make an inquiry, as I spent nine years in M?r.”
Toranth waved permission.
Frell bowed his thanks, then spoke. “If I’m not overstepping myself, I imagine that such a culling of these creatures goes beyond mere vengeance.”