Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

65

"Father, you're not well. I shall go and get Physicker Naelis," Koreti says. He moves toward the door, but Korvan arrests him by seizing his arm and pulling him back around. He sees the terror on Koreti's face and wonders how he will be able to survive this pain. Never in his life has he felt anything so raw, so cruel.

"Father you're frightening me and you're hurting me please—" says Koreti all in a rush, jerking, trying to pull away.

Korvan shakes him, hard. "I should kill you! Bastard! Bastard child!"

Koreti raises his hands to grasp Korvan's wrists in an attempt to push him away. Suddenly, a flash of white light blinds the emperor and he releases his hold, jarred by an eldritch sensation that has rushed through his body from Koreti's hands. The feeling vibrates in his bones, in his teeth.

When Korvan can finally see again, he meets Koreti's terrified gaze. The boy is crying now, but his expression is one of shock.

The man is equally shocked. "What was that?"

Koreti's hands are still raised. He looks at his palms, his mouth half-open. As one, man and boy realize what has happened. This was magic.

But Korvan realizes something else in that moment, something that cuts him deeper than the knowledge that brought him here tonight. It's the knowledge that Esaria's betrayal is even darker, even more unthinkable than Korvan could ever have guessed. "Abomination," he breathes, understanding that his wife had not simply lain with some courtier or soldier.

Esaria has lain with an Arcborn man.

Korvan reaches out and takes Koreti by the front of his nightshirt, quivering with rage. Koreti says something—it's incoherent—but Korvan, too disgusted and horrified by the truth of it, hurls him away. Again, Koreti sprawls to the floor.

"Your mother is a whore!" Korvan snarls. "I have but two sons. Who is your father, boy? I doubt even she knows! Some filthy servant, some low-bred Arcborn bastard! Abomination!"

Koreti scrambles across the floor, making for the door to escape. He seems to be afraid for his life. And well he should be, for he cannot be suffered to live. Korvan has not come prepared; his mind was too confused. Is still too confused. He looks around, grasping for some weapon, some way to kill this thing that threatens everything he cherishes, everything his father and his father's father built. But there is nothing, and Koreti is on his feet now at the door.

For an instant, the boy looks back, and Korvan knows that if he lets the bastard prince cross the threshold, all is lost. If the secret comes out, even the parentage of his two elder sons will be in doubt. If the secret comes out, Korvan will be no sovereign; he will be a cuckold, too weak even to control his own sweet, biddable wife. Everything he has will crumble.

But Koreti's face is pale, and Korvan can see the gleam of tears on the boy's cheeks, the dark blur of blood on his chin. And a painful recollection crosses Korvan's mind: Koreti as a younger child, his cheeks still wet with tears from a fall; but he is laughing in this memory, for he is being comforted in his mother's arms. Esaria's arms.

"Leave the palace," Korvan says, knowing it will seal his fate. "And never come back. If I see you again, I will kill you with my own hands."

"Father, I don't—"

"Go!" Korvan screams.

And Koreti runs.

Korvan shook his head. The memories were like shattered glass, drawing blood as they slipped through his fingers. He walked through Koreti's room, trailing a hand over the bookshelf, the table, the neatly-made bed. It was as the boy had left it that night. It was the room kept by a grieving father for a son he had lost. He could not change anything, could not open it up to guests or relations. He had to preserve the memory of the lost prince Koreti in his people's hearts, to remind them of why they fought.

...

"Your Grace."

Morning now. Korvan did not think he had slept. He turned his head to the window and saw that it was dawn. "Yes, Councilor."

"Forgive me for disturbing your rest, Your Grace. The archmage awaits; he is prepared for the ritual."

"Very good, Yorek." Korvan slid out from beneath the covers, not minding the councilor's presence. Yorek had seen him in his weakest moments; he was, perhaps, the only person in the world who had. "I will come presently."

"At your pleasure, Your Grace. Your manservant has your morning tea. I shall await you without."

Korvan preferred to move through his day with efficiency. He never lingered about his ablutions, never loitered or wasted time. Within twenty minutes, he was clean, dressed, coiffed, and had drunk his first cup of tea.

He stepped out of his room to find Yorek waiting, as he nearly always did, just outside the door. Together, without a word, they made their way toward an agreed-upon meeting place: a storage room, cleared for their purpose. The archmage would doubtless prefer to work his conjurings in his own secluded compound, but Korvan had insisted upon remaining in the palace.

Outside the palace walls, the world was chaos. Inside, at least, Korvan was in control.

"Your Grace," said Jaeron, making his normal, restrained obeisance. He stood just outside the closed door of the storage chamber, which was flanked by two stone-faced imperial guards. "I bid you good morning."

"Archmage," Korvan replied. "Is all in readiness?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I invite you to observe, should you wish."

Korvan maintained a calm demeanor, but his heart thumped in his chest. He curled his fingers in to his sweaty palms. "Please, proceed."

The archmage led the way into the storage chamber, where two additional guards waited. The old woman lay on a table within. She did not make any sign of noticing their entry.

"I gave her a draught for sleep," explained Jaeron. "It is best if she does not struggle."

Korvan had no wish to involve himself in the sorcery. He stood back to observe. It was hard to believe that this old woman had mothered two generations of monsters, he thought; she looked so frail. But he knew she was probably a monster herself.

There were pretty words, of course; all Starborn magic spells required chanting and other such nonsense. Korvan did not seek to understand it. Indeed, he did not even listen. He simply stared at the weak form of the woman, willing her to be the link that he needed. Through her, the rebel king would receive the message: bring your motley army to the capitol, or let it burn, and let her die.

Jaeron pushed back the sleeve of the creature's dress with a fastidious look of distaste. He lay her pale forearm along the table, turning it up to the light, and he raised his small knife to complete the ritual.