The King's Blood

placing a man loyal to Asterilhold on the Severed Throne.”
    “I was,” Lechan said calmly. “I claim sole authorship and responsibility for the plan. The intention was born with me. The men in my court who took part did so only out of love for me and loyalty to my words and commands. Most were ignorant of my final design.”
    Palliako looked as though someone had struck him on the back of the head. When he shot a glance at Basrahip, Dawson tapped Skestinin’s knee. The huge priest shook his head. No. Geder licked his lips, obviously confounded. Dawson understood, of course. It was Lechan’s duty to protect his people as much as it was theirs to protect him. Battle and war were lost, and now Lechan would do all he could to eat the sins of his people and carry the retribution to the grave with him. Dawson felt a surge of respect toward this man, his enemy. If Simeon had had half the spine of Lechan, what a world he and Dawson could have made.
    Geder’s face was growing darker than a stormcloud. When he spoke again, his words were clipped, narrow, and rich with anger.
    “All right,” he said. “If that’s how you want it, that’s how we’ll have it. Lechan of Asterilhold, for your crimes against Antea, I declare your life and your kingdom forfeit to the Severed Throne.”
    Lechan didn’t move. His face was calm. Geder raised a hand, and the call went for the executioner. The man who came out wore the white, faceless mask. He bowed to Geder and again to Aster, then drew his sword and walked to the prisoner.
    The crowd gasped when the blow struck, and then they cheered. The chorus of voices raised in joy and bloodlust was like a waterfall. It deafened. Dawson watched in silence as one enemy of his kingdom bled dry at the feet of another. The claiming of responsibility had been a noble gesture, he thought, but doomed. Palliako’s wrath wouldn’t be restrained by it. If he chose to spill every drop of noble blood in Asterilhold, he would do it. There was no one left to stop him.
    The guard tapped his shoulder, and Dawson realized it wasn’t the first time he’d been told to stand. He rose to his feet and began the walk back toward his cell. Skestinin walked at his side, his gaze cast low. The halls of the Kingspire seemed different now. Smaller, darker. It wasn’t that they had changed—the structures were all just as they had been since the day they’d been built. But it also wasn’t the Kingspire any longer.
    As they walked out into the open air, Dawson looked to his left, craning his neck to see the dueling grounds, and beyond that the Division, and beyond that the buildings and mansions, one of which had been his. The wind was picking up, pressing a warm hand against him. It smelled of rain. He paused, looking for clouds on the horizon, and the guards shoved him.
    His cell seemed larger now that he was its only occupant.
    “Well,” Skestinin said.
    “Thank you for that,” Dawson said. “And give my family my regards.”
    “I will.”
    Skestinin hesitated, desperate to leave and unable to. Dawson lifted his eyebrows.
    “About Barriath,” Skestinin said. “He’s a good man. I’ve been proud to have him. But as things are… I’ve asked him to step down, and I’d rather you got word of it from me. It’s not wise right now to have a Kalliam commanding swords or ships. Not good for him and not good for the court.”
    The anger came fast and clean.
    “Are you going to have your daughter step down from her marriage?” Dawson said.
    Skestinin’s contrition blinked out as if it had never been there.
    “Might if I could,” he said. “I don’t agree with what you did, Dawson, but you’ll face your judgment and take the consequences. My Sabiha didn’t have the choice. They said she was a slut. Now they’re going to say she’s a traitor too.”
    “But she isn’t,” Dawson said. “Truth isn’t what other people say. Sabiha isn’t a traitor, and she isn’t a slut. If she doesn’t know that without someone telling her, you’ve done a poor job as a father.”
    For a moment, Skestinin didn’t answer. His expression was incredulous, fading slowly to disgust. Or worse, pity.
    “You don’t change, Kalliam.”
    “No,” Dawson said. “I don’t.”

Geder
     
    G
    eder stalked through the halls of the Kingspire. He had expected that the death of King Lechan would leave him feeling better. Relieved, perhaps. Victorious, certainly. Instead, he felt grumpy. He’d thought that