THE SUNDERING

TIRAN

Tiran left the throne room after his mother tried once again to show him up before the courtiers, hatred, and deliberation in each step. He turned twenty-five in less than six months. Time was running out for him to strike. The attacks on his life were frequent, but subtle. No one could blame the Regent for the poisoning of his food or drink, attempts done when his taster grew deathly ill. An accident, or so they claimed.

Perhaps the barrage to his carriage by commoners bent on retribution against the crown would be his undoing. Jealousy from a maddened crowd? Those were the whispers the courtiers gave.

Maybe the surreptitious slicing of the saddle for his horse, ready to unseat him while he was out riding, would demise where nothing else had. The stableboy, surely innocent, was held for treason. No trial, just execution.

Tiran wasn't ignorant, and he knew whose clutch he almost fell under as he lay on the ground staring up at the Yrurrian skies, Death looking him in the face when his horse jumped the log, and the leather strap gave. He broke his leg. Next time it might be his neck.

His mother would be brought down. He promised himself and he assured those who followed him. He refused to fail.

Santh looked up at him, pausing and crossing his arms over his meager chest. "She's always watching you, your Majesty."

Santh whispered towards Tiran, his voice as shadowy as the dimly lit corridors. A frown furrowed his youthful brow.

"Every time you go in her presence, it's more likely she finds you out. Be careful of her, please, Sire. What if you don't survive the next time she wants to kill you?"

Tiran huffed quietly. Consoling the boy was his job. It was also necessary, for Santh had become like a younger brother to him, a confidante in life when he had no other.

"The Regent is more obsessed with her looks, the whores that frequent her bed, and her damned plotting." Tiran smiled reassuringly, a gesture that fought to reach his eyes, or through his drowning voice. "She doesn't see what she doesn't choose to, my boy. We won't be discovered, I promise you."

Santh grunted dispassionately, sounding older than his age. Not unusual, since Tiran had found and brought the boy into his household after running across him in one of the village pubs, drunk as a polecat and starting arguments with men three times his size and age. Santh never showed fear. His devotion to the cause was without regret or mercy. He was damned loyal. Best of all, no one suspected him at espionage, least of all the woman Tiran needed to eradicate before the sun rose high into the silver-backed skies on his birth-date-his mother, by birthright if not by deed. If he failed by then, he was likely dead.

"I'll need that devotion when things turn to shit. I'll need all who believe in my rule."

Santh fisted at his youthful chest in salute, ready to war. Ready to do whatever it took to make his reign succeed.

Tiran accepted the affirmation. He was steel. He was a damned king. Fire and light, ice, and darkness. Time to show his cards and to put away the meek mask that hid the ravenous wolf inside.

"The Regent is up to something. She sent Sebastian of Zelal away, and by the gods, know that she will rot in hell before I let her gain anything more over me. Find out the Assassin's latest orders. He'll act by my side, or he'll die with the rest of them when I rise."

Tiran began walking again, Santh obediently following. The boy remained quiet.

"The Assassin left the fortress this morning, before the Regent's announcement of execution. I'll question the servants and those courtiers favorable to you. Believe me, my king, you will have your answers."