crossing his arms on his chest. “My god, my majestic king—”
Garoth sat up. “Out with it. You have a message from the Jadwin slut.”
“She reports that she has killed the prince, but has lost possession of the ka’kari. So sorry, Your Holiness.”
“Doubtless it’s another counterfeit,” Garoth said, addressing himself, not the functionary. “Have the ships arrived for the Modaini invasion?”
Cenaria he could deal with whenever he pleased, but a straight march south would tie up his armies for weeks or months. That damned Duke Gyre had turned the defenses at Screaming Winds into a serious obstacle. He could take it, of course. He could probably defeat any army in the world now except the Alitaerans’, but a Godking didn’t waste men or meisters on frontal assaults. Not when he had other options.
Besides, what conqueror would really want a hive like Cenaria, anyway? He’d almost do better to exterminate everyone there and send his own subjects to colonize the city.
Garoth Ursuul’s interest wasn’t in temporal power. The bid for Cenaria was just an amusement. He had far more reliable intelligence that the red ka’kari was in Modai. Once there, he would have Cenaria surrounded. He could probably take the country without even fighting for it. Then, Ceura, and a strike right into the mages’ heart, Sho’cendi. He wouldn’t have to face Alitaera until he was sure of victory.
“Two ships are still passing through Cenarian waters.”
“Good, then—”
“Your Holiness—” the man squeaked as he realized whom he had just interrupted.
“Hopper?”
“Yes, Your Holiness?” Hopper’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Don’t ever interrupt me again.”
Hopper nodded, wide-eyed.
“Now what did you have to say?”
“Lady Jadwin claims to have seen someone bond the ka’kari in the hallway outside her room. Her description was . . . accurate.”
“By Khali’s blood.” Garoth breathed. A ka’kari, after all this time. A ka’kari someone had bonded. That almost made it easier. A ka’kari alone was small enough it could be hidden or lost anywhere, but a ka’kari that was bonded would be kept close by whomever bonded it.
“Reroute those ships. And order Roth to go ahead with the assassinations. The Gyres, the Shinga, all of them. Tell Roth he’s got twenty-four hours.”
Something was terribly wrong. Regnus Gyre knew that as soon as he reached the gates of his home. No guards were standing outside. Even with how many of his servants and guards the king had managed to have fired or driven off in the last decade, that was disturbing. The lamps were still burning inside the manse, which was odd, an hour past midnight.
“Should I call out, my lord?” Gurden Fray, his guard, asked.
“No.” Regnus dismounted and looked through his saddlebags until he found the key. He opened the gate and drew his sword.
On either side of the gate, out of the lamplight, was a body. Each had his throat cut.
“No,” Regnus said. “No.” He started running for the manse.
He burst through the front door and saw red everywhere. At first his mind refused to accept it. In every room, he found the dead. All looked like they had been caught unawares. Nothing was broken. There were no signs of violent conflict at all, except the bodies. Not even the guards had fought. Almost everyone had had his throat slashed. Then the bodies had been turned so they would bleed as much as possible. Here, old Dunnel was seated upside down in a chair. There Marianne, who had been Logan’s wet nurse, was laid down the stairs with her head on the bottom step. It was as if Death himself had strolled through the house, and no one had even tried to stop him. Everywhere, Regnus saw trusted servants, friends, dead.
He found himself running up the stairs, past the statue of the Grasq Twins, toward Catrinna’s room. In the hall, he saw the first signs of a struggle. An errant sword had smashed a display case. A portrait of his grandfather had a chunk of frame missing. The guards here had died fighting, the killing wounds on their chests or faces. But the winner was clear, because each body had had its throat cut, and its legs propped up on the walls. The puddles from a dozen men met, coating the floor as if it were a lake of blood.
Gurden knelt, his fingers touching a friend’s neck. “They’re still warm,” he said.
Regnus kicked open the door of his room. It banged noisily; if it had been closed and locked earlier in the night, it wasn’t now.