musical troupe floated on a breeze cooler now than it had been—summer had finally broken.
“My Lord.”
Therrador turned to look at the messenger and it took him a moment to recognize Sir Matte Eliden, a knight of at least sixty summers who fought beside them when Braymon won his crown. The six years since Therrador last saw him had not been kind; he looked every one of his years and more. The knight’s watery blue eyes always looked like they might spill tears into his neatly trimmed white beard at any moment.
“Sir Matte,” Therrador said, consciously adding a note of delight to his voice. He descended the short marble stair from the balcony and embraced the old knight. “You look well, old man. What news from the front?”
“The enemy’s ceased storming the wall, my Lord.”
“That’s good news. Push enough of them from ladders and they lose their taste for climbing, eh?”
Sir Matte neither smiled nor nodded.
“The siege continues from afar, hurling boulders and hellfire at the wall. We return the same, but for every one what falls, two more take their place.” He glanced around the room, eyes watering, then leaned forward and, in a quieter voice, said: “We fight an army of the dead, my Lord.
“So I’ve heard,” Therrador nodded and put his arm around the old knight’s shoulders, guiding him to a seat. “Rest, good sir. Would you like some wine?”
Sir Matte wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “We ran dry of ale a week ago. I’d welcome a tankard.”
“I’ll make sure the situation is remedied.” Therrador clapped his hands sharply and a squire appeared at the doorway. “Bring Sir Matte a flagon of ale, and a cup of red for myself.” The squire bowed and left. Therrador took a seat across from the knight. “Tell me, how is morale amongst the troops?”
“It’d be better with more ale, my Lord.”
“I’ll send some kegs back from my personal stores. How is it otherwise?”
The knight shook his head, sighed. “It taxes them, fighting an army of dead men. And there be the matter of the king.”
“What do you mean?”
The squire re-entered the chamber, a pewter mug of ale and a goblet of wine on his black tray. Sir Matte had the ewer to his lips before it left the servant’s hand. Therrador waved the youth away and took a sip of wine as he watched the knight drain half the tankard, ale dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Ah,” he proclaimed lowering the mug, froth in his mustache like icicles hanging in the eaves of a house. “That’ll put the hair back on yer balls.”
Therrador laughed in spite of himself. “Even your saggy old balls?”
“I’ll let you know.” Matte took another swig, then his face became serious. “Some of the men are worried the wall won’t hold.”
“We both know the wall will stand. It has done so for a thousand years, it will for a thousand more. But you mentioned the king. What of it?”
Sir Matte set his tankard on the table with a thunk.
“With the king by their sides, the men remembered why they fought against those monsters. Now he’s gone, and none know if he’s dead or not.”
“He’s dead,” Therrador said, voice flat. He swirled his wine in the silver goblet, weighing his words. “Braymon left instructions I should rule if he fell.”
The knight paused, mug lifted half-way to his lips. “This shouldn’t be kept a secret, my Lo... your grace. The men need to know for whom they fight.”
“And they shall, Sir Matte.”
He stared past the old knight, remembering Braymon, the battles they fought and the good times they shared. The plan was going perfectly so far, but he had to admit, he missed the man in spite of the wrongs he’d done him.
“I’ll come, bring ale for the men, and I shall bring them a king.” He moved his gaze to the knight. “You have given me an idea, Matte. They can watch as I become their king.”
“What do you mean, Ther... my liege?”
“My coronation will take place at the Isthmus Fortress. The men protecting the kingdom will see first hand for whom they fight.” Therrador smiled and raised his goblet; Sir Matte banged his flagon against it and drained the remaining ale.
And the Archon will see I have done as promised. Therrador’s smile faded from his lips. Gods help me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
They traversed hills and valleys, plunged through thick stands of trees twisted with brambles and ivy slowing their progress, but now the land