The Dragon's Path

hesitance and determination that Dawson had seen on hunting dogs unsure of how to get down a slope, aware that once they began there would be no stopping. Whatever counsel his old friend had taken in the long night, it hadn’t been with him. On the other hand, he was certain it hadn’t been with Curtin Issandrian either.
    The audience chamber they sat in now wasn’t the usual. There were no tapestries or soft velvet cushions, the walls were bare brick. There were no rugs or cushions to support the bent knees of Simeon’s subjects. The king’s guard stood along the walls with swords and armor that could not be mistaken for merely decorative. Prince Aster sat on a silver throne behind his father. It was clear the boy had been crying.
    Curtin Issandrian knelt across the aisle from Dawson, his face drawn and pale. Alan Klin was at his side. Canl Daskellin and Feldin Maas had both managed to avoid attention. Odderd Faskellin was dead of an arrow to the throat, and his killer already feeding the gallows flies. Geder Palliako, by all rights the hero of the hour for holding the southern gate, had already left the city. Dawson was alone.
    Behind and above the three of them, the viewing galleries were packed. Every man of nobility sat on low, uncomfortablestools behind the length of woven rope that pretended to separate them from the formal audience. The women stood in the upper gallery, including, somewhere amid the press, Clara. The highest gallery was customarily reserved for the most honored lowborn subjects of the king and ambassadors from foreign courts. Today, it stood empty.
    The king stopped pacing, and Dawson didn’t lift his head.
    “This ends today,” Simeon said, his voice ringing out to the farthest corners of the chamber. “It ends now.”
    “Yes, Your Majesty,” Dawson said, his voice carefully humble. A moment later, Issandrian and Klin echoed him.
    “Antea will not follow the dragon’s path while I sit on the Severed Throne,” Simeon went on. “These petty intrigues and political games will
not
bring confusion and strife to the empire at the heart of the world. I swear my life to it, and as your lord, I expect and demand the same of each of you.”
    This time when Dawson said,
Yes, Your Majesty,
Issandrian’s cabal spoke with him.
    “Noble blood has been spilled on the streets of Camnipol. Foreign swords have been drawn on our streets,” the king went on. “It no longer matters whether the motives behind it were pure. There must be a reckoning.”
    In the corner of his vision, Dawson thought he saw Alan Klin grow even more ashen.
    “Do you have any statements before I pass judgment?” the king asked. “Lord Kalliam?”
    “No, Your Majesty,” Dawson said. “I abide in loyalty to you and to the Severed Throne.”
    “Lord Issandrian?”
    “Your Majesty,” Curtin Issandrian said. His voice was shaking. “I wish to draw only two things to your attention. First, I beg that you consider that the violence yesterdaymay not have been the intention or plan of any man present. But if Your Majesty is adamant that punishment must be meted out, I ask that you spare my compatriot. The games for Prince Aster were my project, and mine alone. I would not have innocent men suffer simply because they know me.”
    It was a pretty speech, Dawson thought. But ill-advised.
    “My Lord Issandrian forgets that this is not the first violence that your disagreements with House Kalliam have spawned. If you would like to offer yourself up to be made an example of, I will consider it, but don’t think that anyone will find safety behind your skirts.”
    “Majesty,” Issandrian said.
    In the silence that followed, Dawson closed his eyes. His leg ached where his weight ground bone and skin into the stone floor, but he wouldn’t shift. Fidgeting would be beneath the dignity of the occasion.
    “Dawson Kalliam, Baron of Osterling Fells,” King Simeon said. “I am doubling the duties owed by your holdings for the next five years. You are to absent yourself from the court and Camnipol for not less than half a year, nor are you permitted to raise soldiers or hire mercenaries without the express permission of the throne.”
    Dawson didn’t speak, but deepened his bow. His heart was beating faster now, and he was careful not to show his anxiety.
    “Curtin Issandrian, Baron of Corsa,” the king went on. “I reclaim all lands previously held by you south of the river Andriann, and dismiss you from your positions