Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

THIRTY-EIGHT

It was an hour past sundown when Abalone left his home, dematerializing off his side lawn. The night was bitterly cold, and as he re-formed on the estate of one of the glymera’s wealthiest families, he took a moment to breathe until his sinuses went numb.

Others were gathering, the males and females appearing out of the darkness, straightening their furs and fine clothes and jewels before striding toward the light.

With a heavy heart, he followed.

The grand carved doors of the mansion were held open by doggen, the staff unmoving in their livery, naught but blinking stops.

The lady of the house, such that she was, was standing under a chandelier in the foyer, her dress a bright red couture number that fell to the ground in drapes of silk. Her jewels were rubies, the flashes at her throat and her ears and her wrists an ostentatious display.

For no particular reason, he thought that the true queen of the race’s red gems were much better, bigger, clearer. He had seen an oil painting of the majestic female back in the Old Country, and even distilled through paint and age, the Saturnine Ruby and its counterparts had had a resplendence that would destroy the pretense before him.

The hostess’s mate was nowhere to be seen. But then again, that male had difficulty standing for long periods of time.

Not long for the world, he was.

The receiving line that had formed proceeded apace, and soon enough Abalone was kissing the powdered cheek of the female.

“So glad you could come,” she said grandly, flicking a hand in the direction behind her. “The dining room, if you will.”

As her rubies flashed, he pictured his daughter as such, a grand lady in a grand house with glassy eyes.

Mayhap the punishment for not going along with this affront to the throne was worth it. He had found love with his shellan for the years she had been on the Earth, but that had been luck, he’d come to realize. Most of his contemporaries, now slaughtered in the raids, had been in loveless, sexless relationships that had revolved around the party circuit instead of the familial dinner table.

He did not want that for his daughter.

Yet, if love had happened for him, surely there was a chance for her even in the glymera?

Right?

Walking into the dining room, he found that it was just as it had been when the King had addressed them all so recently: the long thin table was moved out and the twenty or so chairs were set up in rows. This time, however, the survivors of the aristocracy were settling in along with their mates.

Usually shellans were not included in Council meetings, but there was nothing usual about this gathering. Or the last.

And indeed, the gathered should have been more somber, he thought as he picked a silk-covered seat in the back: As opposed to showing any respect for the historical significance, the danger, the unprecedented nature of all this, they were chatting among themselves, the gentlemales blustering, the ladies casting their hands this way and that so that their jewels flashed.

Indeed, Abalone was alone in the back row, and instead of greeting those whom he knew, he freed the button on his suit jacket and crossed his leg at the knee. When somebody lit up a cigar, he took a cheroot out and did the same, just to give himself something to do. And as a doggen immediately showed up at his elbow with an ashtray on a brass stand, he nodded thanks and focused on tapping the ash.

He was small potatoes to all of them, because he had long ago decided that under the radar was best. His blood had seen firsthand the cruelties of court and society, and he had learned that lesson through reading the diaries that had been passed down to him. The truth was, he had financial resources that all of them in this room collectively could barely meet.

Thank you, Apple computer.

Best investment anyone in the eighties could have made. And then there had been big pharma in the nineties. And before that? The steel corporations and railroad companies around the turn of the century.

He’d always had a knack for where humans were going to want to go with both their enthusiasms and their necessities.

If the glymera knew this, his daughter would be a commodity of great value.

Which was another reason he didn’t talk about his net worth.

Incredible how far his bloodline had come over the centuries. And to think they owed it all to this King’s father.

Ten minutes later, the room was full—and that, more than the party-party affect, was the sign that the glymera had at least some appreciation of the magnitude of what they were doing. Fashionably late did not apply this evening; the doors were going to be locked right about …

He checked his watch.

… now.

Sure enough, there was a reverberation of sound as heavy wood slid home.

All and sundry sat and went silent, and that was when he was able to count the heads and find out who was missing. Rehvenge, the leahdyre, of course—he had allied himself with Wrath and no one was going to shake that tie. Marissa was also missing, although her brother, Havers, was here—but then she was mated to that Brother no one really knew who was supposedly from Wrath’s line.

Naturally, she would be absent as well—

The paneled doors on the right side of the fireplace opened and six males walked in. Instantly, the assembled straightened in their seats. He recognized two of them immediately—the aristocratic-looking one in the front … and the ugly harelipped one in the back who had come to visit him with Ichan and Tyhm. The four in between were shades of the same dark hue: big-bodied, sharp-eyed fighters, who were alert but not twitchy, ready but not jumping the gun.

Their control was the scariest thing about them.

Only the unafraid could be that relaxed in this situation—

The lady of the house led her hellren in, the male bent like the head of the cane he used with his free hand, his hair white, his face lined like pleated drapes.

She sat him down as if he were a child, arranging his suit coat, smoothing his bright red tie.

Then she addressed the assembled, hands clasped like a soprano about to belt out an aria to a packed house. Her glow at the attention turned upon her was wholly inappropriate, in Abalone’s mind.

In fact, this whole thing was a nightmare, he thought as he tapped his ashes again.

As her mouth got to working, spewing out thank-yous and acknowledgments, he wondered how things were going to fare for her after her “beloved” went unto the Fade. Undoubtedly, that depended upon the will and whether this was a second mating and if there were young of the blooded line preceding her in the race to the assets.

Ichan was the next to take the stage. “…crossroads … necessary action … work of Tyhm to expose the weakness set before the race … half-breed mate … quarter-bred heir…”

It was the rhetoric that had been spelled out to him, the recap simply posturing to pretend that this was the first anyone had heard of it. But all had been prepped, the expectations laid out beforehand, the repercussions avowed as necessary.

Abalone glanced over to the far corner of the room. Tyhm, the solicitor, was standing with all the prepossession of a coatrack, his long, thin body held tightly upon its vertical. He was nervous, his eyes both rapt and blinking over much.

“…vote of no confidence must be unanimous for this super-majority of the Council. Further, your signatures will be affixed with seals upon this document prepared by Tyhm.” Ichan held up a parchment with its Old Language symbols drawn with care in blue ink—and then motioned to a lineup of multicolored ribbons, a sterling-silver bowl of red candles, and a stack of white linen napkins. “All of your colors are present here.”

Abalone glanced down at the massive gold signet ring that sat heavily on his hand. It was the one his father had worn, the crest carved so deeply in the metal that even after the passage of centuries, the outline, the swirls, the icons were obvious.

Verily, the ring’s gold had no doubt been shiny back when it had been cast, but now it was matte from a patina of wear and tear well-earned by the males of his family. Honorably earned.

This was wrong, he thought once again. This entire construct against Wrath was false, drummed up only to serve the ambitions of aristocrats who were not worthy of the throne: They did not care about the purity of the heir’s blood. It was just the vocabulary assigned to justify their goal.

“May we have a vote?” Ichan looked out over the crowd. “Now.”

This was wrong.

Abalone’s hand began to shake such that he dropped the cheroot on the floor—and he could not move to pick it up.

Say no to this, he told himself. Stand up for what is—

“All in favor, say, ‘Aye.’”

He did not speak. Although not because he had the courage to be the sole “nay” when dissent was requested.

He did not open his mouth then, either.

Abalone hung his head as the gavel hit wood.

“The motion is carried. The vote of no confidence passed. Let us all now join as one to send this message of change out unto our race.”

Abalone bent down and retrieved his cheroot. The fact that it had burned a small hole in the varnished floor seemed apt.

He was leaving a smudge on the legacy of his ancestors this night.

Instead of going forward to the parchment, he stayed where he was as each family representative and all the females went up and postured at Ichan, playing their part as seals and ribbons were affixed. It was like watching actors on a stage, each of them enjoying their moment in the light, the focus on them.

Did they know what they were doing? he thought. Turning over the reins to whom—Ichan? As a front for those fighters? This was disastrous—

“Abalone?”

Shaking himself at the sound of his name, he looked up. The entire room was staring at him.

Ichan smiled from up front. “You are the last, Abalone.”

Now was the opportunity to live up to the name of his grandfather. Now was his moment to voice his opinion that this was a crime, this was—

“Abalone.” Ichan was still smiling, but there was stark demand in his tone. “Your turn. For your blood.”

As he put the cheroot down in the ashtray, his hand was shaking anew, his palm sweaty. Clearing his throat, he got to his feet, thinking of the bravery of his bloodline, the way his ancestor had done what was right in spite of the risk.

The image of his daughter cut through his wellspring of emotion.

And he felt the eyes of the others like a thousand laser sights trained on him.

With intent to kill.

* * *

As Wrath heard a knocking upon the vaulted door of his mated chamber, he cursed under his breath and ignored it.

“Wrath, you must receive whoe’er it is.”

He took another spoonful of the rich soup that had been prepared before him from vegetables he had gone out and dug from the earth himself. The taste was subtle, the broth fragrant, the pieces of meat from a freshly dispatched cow hand-raised in his stables.

That he himself had killed.

The knocking came again.

“Wrath,” Anha chided as she pushed herself up higher upon her pillows. “You are needed by others.”

He had no sense of the time, whether it was light or dark, how many hours or nights had passed since she had come back to him. And he did not care. Just as he cared naught for the vagaries of court or the concerns of the courtiers—

More knocking.

“Wrath, give me the spoon and you answer that door,” his female commanded.

Oh, that made him smile. She was truly returned.

“Your wish is my command,” he said, placing the broad bowl in her lap and giving her the utensil he had used.

He would have so much preferred to continue to feed her himself. But to see her able to manage the effort without spilling and effect the process of getting further nourishment into her belly? It eased him in ways internal.

And yet sadly, a pall still hung over them both: Neither he nor she had spoken about the young—about whether or not what had befallen Anha had robbed them of their dearest wish.

It was too painful to speak of—especially in light of the revelation made by Tohrture—

“Wrath. The door.”

“Yes, my love.”

Stalking across the throw rugs, he was ready to behead whoever dared to intrude on the healing.

Except as he opened the heavy panels, he froze.

Outside in the corridor, the Black Dagger Brotherhood had amassed, their fighter bodies choking what was otherwise more than ample space.

Instinct to protect his shellan made him wish for a dagger in his hand as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Indeed, that urge to defend his turf had him curling his fists up even though he had never been trained to fight. But he would die to save her—

Without a word, their black blades came out, the torchlight catching and flashing across those killing surfaces.

Heart pounding, he prepared for an attack.

Except it was not: As one, they went down upon bended knee, bowed their heads, and struck at the ground, their daggers chipping up flakes from the stone floor.

Tohrture lifted those incredible blue eyes first. “We pledge ourselves unto you and only you.”

And then they all looked up at him, their respect plain on their faces, those incredible bodies prepared to be called into service for him, by him—and only in that fashion.

Wrath put his hand over his heart and could not speak. He had not realized until this moment how alone he had been, just his shellan and him against the world—which had felt like enough. Until now.

And this was such the opposite of the glymera. The courtiers’ gestures were always done in public, and had no more depth than any performance—once executed, it was past.

But these males …

By tradition and custom, the King bowed to no one.

And yet he bowed the now. Deeply and reverently.

Remembering words he’d heard his father speak, he pronounced, “Your vow is accepted with gratitude by your King.”

Then he tacked on something that was all his own: “And it is returned. I pledge unto you, each and every, that I shall provide to you the very fealty that you have offered and I have accepted.”

He met each of the Brothers in the eye.

His father had used these specially bred males for their brawn, but his alliance had been with the glymera primarily.

Instinct told the son the future was safer if the opposite was true: With these males behind him, he and his beloved and any young they might have would have the better chance of survival.

“There is someone who desires to meet with you,” Tohrture said from his position on the floor. “We would be honored to stand guard here at your door whilst you attend to this necessary in your receiving chamber.”

“I shall not leave Anha.”

“If you will, my lord, please proceed unto your other chamber. This is one with whom you need to speak.”

Wrath narrowed his stare. The Brother was unwavering. All of them were unwavering.

“Two of you come with me,” he heard himself say. “The rest remain here to stand guard o’er her.”

With a chuffing war cry, the Brotherhood rose en masse, their hard, frozen faces the very worst commentary on the state of things. But as they arranged themselves before his mated door, Wrath knew in his heart that they would lay down their lives for him or for his shellan.

Yes, he thought. His private guard.

As he departed, Tohrture fell in front of him, and Ahgony came in behind, and whilst the three of them proceeded forth, Wrath felt the protection cloak him to the point of chain mail.

“Who is awaiting us,” Wrath said softly.

“We snuck him in,” came the quiet reply. “None can know his identity or he will not last the fortnight.”

Tohrture was the one who opened the door, and on account of his heft, there was no seeing who was—

In the far corner, a cloaked and hooded figure stood, but was not still: whoe’er it was, was shivering, the draping fabric about them animated by the fear they contained within their body.

The door was shut by Ahgony, and the Brothers did not leave his side.

Breathing in, Wrath recognized the scent. “Abalone?”

Ghost-pale hands trembled their way up to the hood and removed it.

The young male’s eyes were wide, his face devoid of color. “My lord,” he said, dropping to the floor, bowing his head.

It was the young, family-less courtier, the end of the lineup of dandies, the one who was there by the grace of the blood in his veins and nothing else.

“What say you?” Wrath asked, inhaling through his nose.

He caught the scent of fear, yes—but there was something more. And when he defined it for himself, he was … impressed.

Nobility was not ordinarily an emotion to be scented. That was more the purview of fear, sadness, joy, arousal … but this sapling of a male, barely a year out of a transition that had done little to increase his body weight or his height, had a purpose beneath his fear, a driving motivation that could only be … noble.

“My lord,” he choked out, “forgive me my cowardice.”

“In regard to what?”

“I knew … I knew what they would do and I did not…” A sob escaped. “Forgive me, my lord…”

As the male broke down, there were two approaches. One aggressive. The other conciliatory.

He knew he would get farther with the latter.

Walking over to the male, he extended his palm. “Rise.”

Abalone seemed confused at the command. But then he accepted the hand up and the direction that took him over to one of the carved oak chairs by the fireplace.

“Mead?” Wrath asked.

“N-n-n-no thank you.”

Wrath sat opposite the male, his chair groaning under the weight in a way Abalone’s had not. “Imbibe a deep breath.”

When the command was obeyed, Wrath leaned in. “Speak unto me the truth and I shall spare you whate’er you fear. None can touch you—as long as you bear no falsity.”

The male put his face in his hands. Then he breathed in deep again. “I lost my father before my transition. My mother, too, died on the birthing bed. In these departures, I am as you are.”

“It is terrible for one to be left without parents.”

Abalone dropped his hands, revealing eyes that were steady. “I was not supposed to discover what I found. But three dawns ago, I was down in the cellars of the castle. I could not sleep, and my melancholy caused me to walk in the underground. I was without a candle, and my feet were held within soft leather shoes—therefore, when I heard voices, they knew not of my approach.”

“What did you see,” Wrath asked gently.

“There is a hidden room. Beneath the kitchens. I had never seen it before, because its door has a facade to match the walls down below—and I would not have noticed it … except the false panel had failed to close properly. Caught upon a stone, there had been a crack through which mine eyes could focus. Inside, there were three figures, and they were circled about a cauldron o’er a flame. Their voices were hushed as one of them added greens of some kind into whate’er they were warming. The stench was horrible—and I was about to turn around and proceed about my concerns … when I heard your name.”

Abalone’s eyes fixed on a middle distance, as if he were seeing and hearing anew that which he was recounting. “Except it wasn’t you. It was your father. They were discussing how he had sickened and died—and attempting to determine the proper amount for someone of smaller stature.” The male shook his head. “I recoiled. Then hurried off. My mind was twisted by what I had witnessed, and I convinced myself … I must have imagined thus. Surely they could not have been talking about your father, your mate. It was just—they had pledged their troth unto you and your blood. So how could they have such things pass from their lips unto the ears of others?” Clear, guileless eyes met Wrath’s. “How could they do such?”

Tempering an inner fury, Wrath reached out and placed his hand upon the youth’s shoulder. Even though their ages were not that far apart, he felt as though he were speaking unto one of a vastly different generation than his own.

“Worry not of their motivation, son. The impure are confounding to the righteous.”

Abalone’s eyes appeared to well. “I convinced myself that I had been mistaken. Until the queen…” He put his face back into his palms. “…Dearest Virgin Scribe in the Fade, when the queen went down unto the floor, I knew I had failed you. I knew I was no different from them who had caused harm, because I did not stop that which I should have known—”

To prevent a complete unraveling, Wrath squeezed that spare shoulder. “Abalone … Abalone, arrest yourself.”

When there was a modicum of composure returned, Wrath kept his voice level, even though in his interior, he was seething. “You are not responsible for the actions of the nefarious.”

“I should have come to you—they killed the queen.”

“My mate is alive and well.” No reason to dwell on the near loss. “I assure you, she is very well indeed.”

Abalone sagged. “Thank the blessed Virgin Scribe.”

“And you are forgiven by me and mine. Do you understand? I forgive you.”

“My lord,” the male said, dropping anew to the floor and putting his forehead to the black diamond ring Wrath wore. “I do not deserve this.”

“You do. Because you came unto me, you can make the amends you seek. Can you take one of the Brothers down unto this hidden place?”

“Yes,” the male said without hesitation. Springing to his feet, he put up his hood. “Now I shall show them.”

Wrath nodded to Ahgony. “Go with him?”

“My lord,” the Brother said, accepting the command.

“There is just one thing before you go,” Wrath said on a growl. “Can you tell me who they were.”

Abalone’s eyes locked on his own. “Yes. Each of the three.”

Wrath felt his lips lift in a smile even though he knew no joy or happiness in his heart. “Good. That’s very good, son.”