A soft voice from behind made Killian’s skin prickle. “Young Lord Calorian. It has been some time since we saw you last.”
Killian turned. King Serrick Rowenes stood behind him, hands clasped at the small of his back. The ruler of Mudamora was a short, fragile man, his dark blond hair braided in a single plait down his back, his skin the light brown typical of those from the arid region near the border with Anukastre. He wore heavy red robes, the collar embroidered with the symbols of each of the six gods, and the scorpion of his house was picked out in gold across his chest. His pale amber eyes had always possessed an intensity greater than his physical stature, but now they burned with a fervor that caused Killian’s skin to crawl.
“Your Majesty,” he said, taking a long step back so he’d have room to bow.
Serrick inclined his head. “Marked One.”
Killian despised that particular honorific, which was thankfully considered old-fashioned and rarely used. But the King was known to be deeply pious, and he held to the old traditions in more ways than one. In the early days of his reign, he’d once again made it law that anyone marked by one of the Six dedicate their life to serving the realm. All Killian had ever wanted was to be a soldier, so the law was no burden to him, but more than once he’d wondered what, precisely, would happen if he decided he no longer wanted to fight.
“You are here, Marked One, so that we might determine your fate,” the King continued, stepping around Killian and moving toward the Rowenes seat, where he gingerly perched. “But before we begin, let us give tribute to the Six, for their strength is the strength of our belief. Lord Damashere, would you please lead us in our prayer. Lord Calorian, would you stand next to me to lend the strength of your mark to our circle? And you, Malahi, join us as well.”
Reluctantly, Killian moved next to the King’s seat, noticing that the Princess appeared equally unhappy about the request as her father took her hand. Then he grasped Killian’s. The man’s skin was cold and unyielding and felt as dry as old paper. Like holding the hand of a corpse, and just about as appealing.
High Lord Damashere began, “By the grace of the Six does Mudamora remain mighty, and by the belief of its people do the Six remain strong. Let us acknowledge each so that they might be strengthened by our faith.” He proceeded to run through each of the Six, his voice clipped and toneless.
The words came easily to Killian’s lips. His own mother was known for her piety, and he’d spoken this prayer before every meal in his family home in the South. But there the words were warming and unifying. Not like … this. The air teemed with tension, the prayer forced and unwelcome despite everyone here being faithful followers of the Six.
Casting his eyes left, Killian frowned. Serrick’s head was bowed, but his lips did not stir as he listened to Damashere speak. Beyond, Malahi’s head was also bowed, but as Killian watched, her jaw clenched.
Something here isn’t right.
“And let us put our thoughts to our ruler, King Serrick Rowenes, his reign ordained by the gods themselves.”
Killian faltered; this was not part of the prayer he knew. Yet everyone around him parroted Damashere. Unbidden, the image of the scorpion emblazoned on the council room door rose in his mind.
“Our king alone possesses the strength to lead the faithful followers of the Six away from the dark temptations of corruptions by guiding the hands of those the gods have marked.”
Disgust flared through Killian like wildfire, and with a muttered oath he jerked his hand out of Serrick’s grip. Malahi had done the same, and she clutched her palm to her chest.
The King’s eyes fixed upon him. “You, Killian Calorian, were marked by Tremon to protect Mudamora. Yet in our darkest hour, you failed, suffering a defeat that could well cost everyone in Mudamora their souls. That you were defeated tells us that Tremon has turned his back on you. That the Six have turned their backs on you. And to show our faith, we fear we must do the same.”
A dull roar filled Killian’s ears. The King’s words were eerily reminiscent of those his father had spoken. And of the fears lurking in his own heart.