The King's Blood

Dawson took his pole and lifted Simeon to his shoulders.
    At the royal crypt, they laid Dawson’s childhood friend in the darkness and closed the stone doors behind him. The official mourners took their stations at the crypt’s entrance. For a month, they would live in the open, keeping a fire lit in memory of Simeon and all kings past. When that was done, the fire would be let die. As the priest read final rites, Dawson’s family came around him. Clara stood at his right, and beside her Barriath and Vicarian. Jorey stood to his left with his arm around Sabiha still fresh from her wedding gown. When the last syllable had been spoken and the last bone-dry drum sounded, the nobles of Antea turned back to their carriages.
    “For what it carries, I am sorry,” a voice said. Lord Ash-ford wore the dark robes of mourning, his cheek ash-marked like the rest. “I’d heard he was an amazing man.”
    “He was a man,” Dawson said. “He had faults and virtues. He was my king and my friend.”
    Ashford nodded. “I am sorry.”
    “Now that Palliako’s regent, you have an audience with him,” Dawson said.
    “I do.”
    “He’s asked me to attend.”
    “I look forward to it,” Ashford said. “This has been hanging over our heads too long. Better to have a clean start now.”
    There are no clean starts , Dawson thought. Just as there are no clean endings. Everything is built like Camnipol: one damn thing atop another atop another reaching down into the bones of the world. Even the forgotten things are back there somewhere, shaping who and what we are now.
    “Yes,” he said instead.
    T
    he walls here were draped with silk tapestry, the air warmed with charcoal and incense. The king’s guard stood along the walls, their faces as impassive before Geder as they had been for Simeon. Even Geder Palliako seemed nearly right for his new role. The tailors had outfitted him in a brocade of red velvet and a circlet of gold that had him looking almost dignified. If he wore it like a costume, these were early days yet. With time and experience, he would come to look natural in it.
    Lord Ashford stood, his hands clasped behind him, waiting for the Lord Regent of Antea to take his seat, and Dawson wondered whether Geder knew that no one was permitted to sit until he did.
    Dawson’s displeasure wasn’t that other people had been welcomed into what should have been a private audience. It was Geder’s first official act as regent. He’d proved an apt tool in Vanai, and whatever magic he’d done to expose Maas had saved at least Aster and likely the kingdom. Lord Ternigan and Lord Skestinin were both present, and rightly so. Lord Caot, Baron of Dannick. Lord Bannien of Estinford. They were more problematic, but at most they signaled an anticipated shift of the powers in the court. No, what irked Dawson was the other person Geder Palliako had chosen to include.
    “Lord Kalliam,” the priest said, bowing. A season in Camnipol had done little to wipe the desert dust off the man. He still looked like a goat-herder from the depths of the Keshet, likely because it was what he was. Geder’s pet cultist looked about as much at home in the chamber as Dawson would have been slogging through a pigsty.
    “Minister Basrahip,” Dawson said, neither bowing nor allowing any warmth into his voice. “I am surprised to see you here. I had thought we were addressing affairs of state.”
    “It’s all right,” Geder said. “I asked him to come.”
    Dawson held back his reply. There were things he would have said to his equals that he could no longer say to Geder Palliako. Instead he nodded.
    “Well, then,” Geder said, fidgeting with his sleeve. “Let’s get this done. Please. Everyone. Sit down.”
    Ashford waited, matching his movement to Palliako’s so that at no point was he sitting while the Lord Regent stood. Basrahip didn’t sit at all, but rather stood back against the wall, his head slightly bowed, like a boy in silent prayer. Dawson sat, slightly mollified. A foreign priest had no reason to be welcome at the meeting, but at least he was acting like a servant. The other lords of Antea ignored the priest magnificently. He might as well not have existed.
    “Lord Ashford?” Geder said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “You requested this audience, and I think we all know why. Would you like to say anything?”
    “Thank you, Lord Regent,” Ashford said. He took a moment to gather himself, his gaze meeting