Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,88

dissimilar tastes—in decoration, in clothes—in everything except women. He scowled at the thought and put it immediately out of his head.

Leaning back in the hard seat, Therrador wondered how the mercenary fared. He knew the man was a ruthless killer—there was no man alive more likely to follow a grisly task to its end—but could he be trusted? A man willing to sell his sword to the highest bidder didn’t instill confidence in his employer. Suath would probably try to sell the vial elsewhere, even without knowing its contents, to see if he could get more than Therrador offered. Most wouldn’t be interested in a vial of unidentified blood, but some might guess its contents, perhaps Suath himself. Better not to take any chances.

Hanh Perdaro’s network learned of two Vendarians found dead on the dock near a slip that shouldn’t have been empty. They must have made it to Lakesh, or tried to, if the Small Sea didn’t claim them. Therrador never expected they’d make it as far as the haunted land—Suath would be penalized, if he returned.

The king’s advisor fidgeted again. The mercenary would follow his quarry to the cursed earth. If he took the vial from them there, it was an easy trip up the coast to Kanos where a man with a vial of blood and a taste for money would have more luck finding a buyer than in Vendaria. As soon as he heard about the stolen boat, Therrador sent more soldiers after them—both the man carrying the vial and the mercenary. It didn’t calm his nerves, however.

He glanced at Graymon playing near the foot of the throne—knights and dragons, as usual. The sight of his son brought a pained smile to his lips.

He looks so much like his mother.

A knock on the throne room door brought him to his feet. It was best he not be seen sitting upon the throne—not yet. He descended the three short steps from the dais and took a seat at the granite table set to the side.

“Enter.”

The thick oaken doors swung inward and Hanh Perdaro, Voice of the People, entered. He crossed halfway to where Therrador sat, then stopped and bowed shallowly at the waist.

“My Lord.”

“Perdaro,” Therrador replied with a nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need your ear, my Lord.” He glanced at Graymon knocking over knights with the wooden dragon—in his games, the dragon always won. “Alone.”

Therrador looked at his son again, then motioned for the door guard.

“Graymon, Daddy needs to speak to Uncle Hanh alone. Go with the young man, he’ll get you a treat from the kitchen.”

Graymon looked up, waving the carved dragon defiantly at the guard. “No,” he cried. “No one can capture Gorgo, king of the dragons.”

Shaking his head apologetically at Perdaro, Therrador rose and went to his son, crouched in front of him. Before opening his mouth to speak, Graymon lashed out with the dragon and struck Therrador’s forearm painfully with its wooden teeth. Therrador’s combat reflexes responded automatically. He grabbed the boy’s wrist, making him drop the toy. Graymon’s face turned instantly from joy to hurt, his eyes watering, mouth drooping. Therrador released his arm, regretting his reaction.

“Please, Graymon. Da needs to speak with Uncle Hanh.” His soothing tones had little effect on the boy’s quivering lip. Therrador stroked his cheek. “The nice man will get you a treat. I bet there’s cookies.”

Graymon’s face brightened like a cloud passing from the sun. He jumped up and ran to the door guard while Gorgo, king of the dragons, lay forgotten on the floor. Therrador watched him leave, then returned to the table and motioned for Perdaro to sit.

“What’s on your mind, Hanh?”

The Voice of the People took a seat directly across from Therrador, taking a moment to straighten his tunic and smooth his sparse hair before speaking.

“There are rumors,” he began. Therrador tensed at the words—Hanh Perdaro didn’t tend toward dramatics. “I have heard whispers the blood of the king is bound for Lakesh, Therrador.”

The king’s advisor stiffened at the sound of his own name; he’d become used to being addressed as ‘my Lord’ and the like. The day the entire country referred to him as ‘my liege’, ‘your highness’ or ‘your grace’ couldn’t come soon enough. But first these whispers needed to be dealt with.

“I have already told you , Hanh,” Therrador said carefully controlling his voice. “Bale is dead, as are Rudric and Gendred. None escaped. You saw the empty vial. The king’s blood fed the parched earth