Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,89
at the foot of the Isthmus fortress.”
“It’s not I who disbelieves. My opinion is inconsequential. I speak for the people. If not quelled, whispers and rumors become rumblings, and nothing good comes of rumblings.” He paused to glance over first one shoulder, then the other—a habit born of listening to and re-telling whispers. “It’s also said the Mourning Sword was not with Bale’s body. Some see it as an ill omen.”
Therrador harrumphed. “Pillaged, that’s all. What man wouldn’t want such a sword for their own, whether they knew what it was or not.”
“But the people say—”
The slap of Therrador’s open hand on the smooth granite table top echoed across the chamber. He glared at Perdaro and surreptitiously rubbed his stinging palm against his thigh. For this man, he had more patience for conversation than most, but he found his patience easily worn thin these days.
“There is a war being fought,” he snapped. “Do the people whisper about that? The kingdom needs a king, or all will be lost. What do their rumors say about that?” He glared at the Voice of the People, scrutinizing his expression, but it betrayed nothing of his own thoughts. “That’s where my priorities must lie, not in chasing a hope we know false. Braymon’s dead and gone and I’m the one he named to take his place if exactly this came to pass. The sooner the people stop their whisperings and accept their new king, the easier life will be for all.”
They looked across the table at each other, neither speaking for a minute. Therrador wondered if he’d allowed his anger to make him say too much, but Perdaro’s face showed nothing. The things this man must have heard through the years—some of them enough to make most men cringe, or cry, but the Voice of the People couldn’t afford such luxuries. He spoke little, listened much, and reacted not at all.
“What does my Lord wish to do?”
Therrador drummed his fingers on the table, acting as though his palm didn’t still hurt. He stopped and rubbed his chin.
“Start your own rumors, Hanh,” he said finally. “Tell the people what they want to hear. Whisper that we caught a Kanosee who survived the fight outside the fortress walls. With his capture imminent, he emptied Braymon’s blood from the vial. Tell them we recovered the Mourning Sword from his butchered corpse and it’s secreted away until there is a Shaman to replace Bale.” He stared at Perdaro, looking past him, through him. “Tell them Braymon is dead, he won’t be coming back, and his dying wish was for Therrador to be king in his stead.”
Hanh Perdaro nodded, unspeaking. His face remained an emotionless mask. When Therrador said no more, he stood, bowed at the waist and went to leave. As his hand touched the brass knob on the oaken door, Therrador spoke again.
“And Hanh, tell Sir Alton I need to see him. There’s a one-eyed man who must not enter the kingdom alive.”
Perdaro nodded and left the throne room, closing the door behind him. Therrador leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands across his stomach. He glanced at the wall hangings, imagining them depicting his own acts of heroism. Perhaps one of them would show Gorgo, king of the dragons. Graymon would like that.
“Tell them the king is dead,” he said to the empty room. “Tell them ‘long live the king’.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Night fell but the forest remained illuminated by the flames from the giant’s fire reaching toward the boughs high overhead, flickering and dancing higher than the height of the giant. The creature squatted at the edge of the fire pit, staring mesmerized into its depths, occasionally poking a burning log with the tip of a spear longer than any Khirro had ever seen. Several yards from where it crouched, Elyea and Ghaul sat back to back, a thick rope woven of green vines looped around them. Their chins drooped forward, touching their chests, so Khirro couldn’t tell whether they were conscious or not.
Overhead, Shyn-as-falcon perched on a limb, awaiting the signal. Khirro and Athryn crept around the giant’s encampment, painstakingly picking their way to a spot close to their captive companions. As the moment for action drew near, Khirro’s gut twisted. He touched the vial tucked inside his tunic, seeking comfort and courage from it, but found only cool glass. Over the past weeks, he’d tasted fear like he’d never experienced. This was worse. Anticipation multiplied fear exponentially, growing it beyond the bounds he thought