The King's Blood

the next phrase, but nothing was there. He heard himself moan low and breathy, and a light-headedness washed over him. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to his knees.
    I must not vomit , he thought. Whatever happens, I must not vomit.
    The summons had come with the falling day. The spring sun burned low, stretching out the shadows, drowning the streets and alleys in the rising darkness. Night-blooming ivies were opening petals of blue and white as Geder left his mansion, and subdued lights glowed in the windows of Cur tin Issandrian. A year before, it might well have been Issandrian who received the courier bearing the royal seal. Or Maas. Or the hated Alan Klin. When he’d reached the Kingspire, the top of the great tower was still bright with the sun when all around it had fallen into twilight. The wind was coming down from the north, cold but not bitter, and setting the trees to nodding. The man who met him was neither servant nor slave, but a kingsman of noble blood come to lead Geder to Simeon’s private chamber.
    Even now, with his head low and the world spinning, Geder could remember feeling pleased with himself. Baron of Ebbingbaugh and Protector of the Prince answering the urgent call of the Severed Throne. Put that way, it had seemed like a thing of high romance and dignity, a station above anything but idle daydreams. And then this.
    Regent. The word was written in airlessness and printed on vertigo.
    “Help him,” Simeon said. His voice was a damp growl. Gentle hands took his shoulders and lifted him up. The king’s cunning man was a Firstblood with swirling tattoos across his body like a Haaverkin. He murmured softly, fingertips pressing at Geder’s throat and the inside of his elbow. A warmth flowed into him, and his breath came more easily.
    “Is he all right?” the king asked.
    The cunning man closed his eyes and placed a palm on Geder’s forehead. Geder heard something like distant bells that no one else acknowledged.
    “Only the shock, Your Majesty,” the cunning man said. “His health is sound.”
    “I can’t believe this,” Geder said. His voice was trembling. “I didn’t think when I took Aster. I mean, you looked so healthy. I never imagined… Oh, Your Majesty, I am so, so sorry. I am so sorry.”
    “Listen to me,” Simeon said. “I have more energy at sunset, but the confusion comes on. We don’t have long to speak. You must take the audience with Lord Ashford. Do you understand? When the time comes, it will be yours. Protect Aster. Make peace with Asterilhold.”
    “I will.”
    “I can do everything in my power to leave affairs in order, but my power isn’t what it once was.”
    In the dim room, Simeon looked already half a ghost. His left eye drooped as if his flesh were ready to fall from the bone beneath. His voice was slurred, and he rested on a mountain of pillows tucked to support his powerless spine. Geder wanted to believe that this could be a terrible illness from which a man might recover, but there was nothing before him to suggest it was true. Simeon began to say something, and then seemed to lose focus for a moment.
    “I don’t know why he’s here,” Simeon said.
    “You summoned me, Your Majesty.”
    “Not you. The other one. By the doorway. And what’s he wearing?” Simeon sounded annoyed. And then frightened. “Oh, God. Why is he wearing that?”
    Geder turned to look at the empty doorway, dread plucking at the skin all down his back. The cunning man put a hand on Geder’s shoulder.
    “His majesty won’t be able to help you more tonight,” the cunning man said. “If his mind comes back, we will send for you, yes?”
    “Yes,” Geder said. “Thank you.”
    The night had only just begun, but the thin moon floated high in the darkness. Geder let a footman help him up into his carriage, and sat with his back against the thin wood. The driver called to the team, and the horses jounced him forward, steel-clad hooves and iron-bound wheels punishing the stone. They were almost to the Silver Bridge when Geder lurched forward and called up through the thin window.
    “Not home. Take me to the temple.”
    “My lord,” the driver said, and turned.
    The torches were lit in their sconces, burning so clean they didn’t leave soot on the columns. The spider-silk banner still hung, but in the darkness the red was as dark as the eightfold sigil. Geder paused on the steps and turned. The city spread out before him, lanterns and candles echoing