a teenage boy and a middle-aged man with a fringe of auburn hair around an oiled pate stepped in. The middle-aged man had four locks of hair bound to his, all of them Ceuran, all of them old. He stood aside to make way for the boy, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The boy had fiery orange hair, cropped close to his skull, and a single, very long lock bound into his hair. He wore ornately embroidered blue silk robes and a ruby-encrusted sword.
Feir had the insane thought of breaking off the biggest ruby and using it for his fraud.
“Sisters, Lords, Praetor, Your Majesty,” the middle-aged Ceuran said, “may I introduce Sa’sa’ceurai Hideo Mitsurugi, sixth Regent Hideo, Lord of Mount Tenji, Protector of the Holy Honor, Keeper of the High Seat, Lord General of the Held Armies of Ceura.”
People around the table greeted the boy. Logan stood and clasped his forearm. The boy was a little overwhelmed, but even as he followed protocol to the best of his ability, he could barely take his eyes off Lantano Garuwashi. He must be the boy’s hero, Feir thought. Of course, Lantano Garuwashi was probably every young sa’ceurai’s hero.
Garuwashi eyed the middle-aged man more than the boy. Was he the real power? The boy a figurehead? As the boy and his minister got closer and took their seats, Feir’s heart dropped. The middle-aged man was a court mage of some kind, his Talent formidable. Garuwashi caught Feir’s eye and shook his head slightly. It was the signal to abandon the fraud.
It was over. Only death would follow.
Hideo Mitsurugi cleared his throat. “I guess, uh, we might as well do what we’re here for, shall we?” His eyes flicked upward as he tried to remember his lines. “It has been brought to our attention that claims have been brought forward by you or by your followers, doen-Lantano Garuwashi. We understand you have claimed to wield the Blade of Heaven, Ceur’caelestos.”
“I have made such claims, doen-Hideo,” Garuwashi said. There was something almost cheerful in Garuwashi’s face. He’d been doing something wrong that he hadn’t liked, and now it was finished.
“By ancient law and prophecy, the holder of Ceur’caelestos is to be Ceura’s king, a man to usher in the return of the High King, whose reign will announce the birth of the Champion of the Light.” Mitsurugi paused. He’d lost his place. A panicked look came into his blue eyes.
The middle-aged mage whispered a prompt in the boy’s ear. It seemed to embarrass Hideo almost to tears. “Do you claim the High Seat of Ceura, Lantano Garuwashi?”
“I do.”
What was he doing? Feir shot a look over at Garuwashi’s sword. The dragon of the pommel grinned emptily like a boy who’d lost both front teeth.
“Hold on,” Lord General Agon said. “It was my understanding that Ceura’s Regent is doen-Hideo Watanabe. How do we even know that—pardon me—this boy has the authority to test Lantano Garuwashi?”
“You dare!” the middle-aged sa’ceurai said, putting a hand to his sword.
“Yes, I dare,” Agon said. “And if you draw that sword, I’ll dare feed it to you.”
“Ha. You’re an old cripple.”
“Which will make your death all the more embarrassing,” Agon said.
“Stop!” Mitsurugi said. “Hideo Watanabe is my father.” He looked down. “Was. He gathered this army. But before he marched, I learned that he didn’t intend to test you, doen-Lantano. He intended to kill you—whether or not you held the real Ceur’caelestos. I confronted him for dishonoring the regency.” Tears came to Mitsurugi’s eyes. “We dueled, and I slew him.”
Feir couldn’t believe it. The boy killed his father for the idea of Lantano Garuwashi.
“I am Regent now, and by my father’s blood that stains my hands, I have the right to test the man who would be our king,” Hideo Mitsurugi said. “Please, doen-Lantano, show us Ceur’caelestos.”
There was the sound of something tearing and everyone stopped and looked to the back of the tent, where a knife was cutting a vertical slash all the way to the ground. Instantly, every maja and magus embraced their Talent and a dozen hands went to the hilts of swords. An assassin would have a hard time with this crowd.
A hand poked in and waved. “Pardon me,” a man’s deep voice said outside the tent. “If I step inside, am I going to be skewered?” Not waiting for an answer, he stepped inside.
He had pure white hair with black tips, deeply tanned olive skin, and a muscular bare chest beneath a rich cloak.