By Demelza Ramirez (Free Prompt-Free Ebook)
Never had an execution been this solemn.
The slow beats of the war drums hit the air and smacked against the stone walls of Grand Quenten, reverberating out of the main courtyard and throughout the rest of the palace. The few who hadn’t dared to show their face at the execution tried to block the noise by slamming their windows shut. Yet the drum beats continued.
From the Lords’ Balcony, Dillor waited by his father, biting the insides of his cheeks. Several times he wished to shift, to look away from the platform down below where three chopping blocks waited, their executioners waiting too.
Over the slow rhythmic beating of drums, the lonely creak of wagon wheels rose to meet the ears of all present. Dillor glanced toward the archway leading from the dungeons, before glancing around the courtyard. Across the courtyard, parallel to him and the other lords and heirs, were the dukes and heirs, and on a small balcony perpendicular to both stood the new king. King Marcus stood with a smug look, his wife sitting nearby, holding the little baby prince close to her as she tried to avoid looking toward the chopping blocks. Around the platform mainly servants stood, Dillor could tell from the uniforms. But there were some people of the city, those who weren’t in uniform.
The creaking of the wagon wheels grew louder. Dillor looked back toward the archway, clenching his fists behind his back as the cage cart moved under the arch, allowing all to have a view of the three Dorman brothers, each gripping the bars of the cage tightly, standing defiantly and staring toward the king. Dillor bit hard at his cheeks until he tasted blood, his lips struggling not to turn up. Even bloodied and approaching death, the Dorman brothers were every inch the dignified nobility they had been raised to be.
The youngest of the three men, Richard, turned his face away from the king and looked out his side of the cage toward the Lords’ Balcony. Dillor met his gaze, feeling as if his breath had been sucked from his lungs. Even from the short distance, he could tell that Richard’s face sported deep black bruises, as did his neck.
Beside him, Dillor felt his father shift and Dillor pulled his gaze from his friend to his father. Lord Expare glanced at him before turning away, a harsh frown crossing his face. Dillor looked back at the cage cart.
The cart was now at the bottom of the platform. Several guards marched forward and pulled the cage’s door open, yanking the Dorman brothers out, shoving them to their knees while they lashed their hands together behind their backs. In the early morning light, Dillor caught the flash of Prohibitors on the brothers’ wrists, and immediately remembered the last time Richard had worn them.
Richard screamed, falling to the hard ground of the chapel, writhing and ripping at his clothes, as if something were attacking him. Dillor raced forward, his tutor not far behind.
“What’s the matter with him?” Dillor cried.
“He’s wearing Prohibitors,” Magician Andes said. “And his Magic is fighting to get through, but can’t. Quick, hold him down so I can remove them.” Dillor grabbed his friend’s arms and pulled them to the floor, holding them tightly even as Richard continued to scream. Magician Andes wrapped a hand over Richard’s wrists. The man’s silver Magic seeped from his hands like silk ropes, wrapping around Richard’s wrists. There was a click, and Dillor was thrown back as Richard’s blue Magic burst from his body, flying throughout the room, sizzling and hissing with pent up energy. Dillor gasped in fear and awe at the display, though he was glad to hear no more screams from his friend.
When the Magic finally disappeared, Dillor crawled to his friend. Richard lay panting on the stone floor, curled into a ball. Tears rolled down the young man’s face.
“Wh-what happened?” Richard whispered.
“Your Magic built up,” Magician Andes explained. “It’s obvious something upset you. Normally you would have let your Magic out, but since you had the Prohibitors on, your Magic had no place to go, but back into your body. Essentially, your Magic was attacking itself.”
Richard, however, didn’t look upset. Even as he was roughly led up the stairs to the platform, his face staid tranquil in look, his shoulders squared and steps sure. His brothers carried themselves the same way.
Each brother was led to a chopping block, and forced to stand before it. The drum beats stopped, and a heavy, uncomfortable silence fell over everyone. King Marcus came closer to the railing of his balcony and sneered down at the brothers. The young men didn’t twitch.
“Today,” King Marcus began. “We will see the last of the followers of Abram Josten, the king who—with radical ideas—would have brought Austrodai to the ground! Behold, the once Noble House of Dorman, the epitome of radicals. Their dangerous ideals consister of allowing women to have inheritance money, to be able to inherit the rank and title to a Noble House, to be able to study the arts and sciences that we men have studied and advanced for the last three hundred years! Their ideas of allowing women to study Magic are insults to the very kingdom of Austrodai! And it is not tolerated.”
King Marcus looked over the crowd and at the nobles. No one dared to move or look away from the man. The tension was thick in the air, almost suffocating. Dillor clenched his fists harder, digging his nails into his palm.
“As a kind man,” King Marcus continued, “I allowed these young men to have the chance to renounce their ideals and return to the ideals of their Fore Fathers. But they refused. Therefore, for the safety of this kingdom and for a lesson to those who will come after, the House of Dorman shall be obliterated!” He waved his hand and the executioners shoved the brothers to their knees. The first executioner pushed the eldest brother, Brenden, over the chopping block, making sure his neck was in the very center of the wood. He stepped back, lifting his arms high, sword gleaming in the sun.
A mighty swoosh, the thud of metal to wood, and Brenden Dorman’s head thumped to the platform, rolling slightly before stopping to stare lifelessly at an unfortunate maidservant in the front of the crowd.
Dillor felt his stomach roll and he slowly breathed in trying to keep from vomiting his breakfast. He watched as Richard turned his gazed back to the king, a dark glare crossing his face. The second brother, Jacob, vomited to the side of his chopping block. Dillor could see Jacob trembling as the second executioner shoved him into place.
The executioner must not have sharpened his sword well, for the sword went almost all the way. Dillor knew from past executions that the victim was usually dead after the first stroke, and from his vantage point it looked like the sword had gone more than two-thirds of the way through Jacob’s neck. The second swing severed Jacob’s neck, and his head rolled off the platform. Richard jerked back as Jacob’s body fell toward him, almost toppling onto him. Richard swung his body around as much as he could, turning large haunting eyes toward Dillor. Dillor adverted his gaze, looking instead toward King Marcus. The king had followed Richard’s gaze, and now stared hard at Dillor. With stiff, respectful movements, Dillor bowed toward the king. A grin spread across King Marcus’s face and he looked back at Richard, who still stared at his childhood friend.
Dillor straightened and shot a frown at Richard. Richard’s shoulders slumped and his head fell toward his chest. The third executioner grabbed Richard and yanked him over the chopping block, pressing Richard’s neck against the wood. He stepped back and Richard straightened, using his shoulders to push himself off the block. The crowd gasped and the executioner moved forward, stilling when King Marcus raised a hand.
“Do you have something to say, Dorman?” the king demanded.
“Ut diebus calere, Et noctes brevis.” Richard said, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd. “Sit tibi weeks ire velox, Et menses, recede. Déan aon ualaí, bury do Foes. Deo pray mé Do anam Beannaithe. Fidelis ris Tréas.”
King Marcus frowned. “What did you say? What do you mean?”
“You should have kept me,” Richard shouted. “You should have kept me! Then you’d know.” King Marcus waved his hand at the executioner.
“Kill him!” King Marcus bellowed. “Quarter him! Make sure his soul never finds peace!” The crowd started to cry out with shock and anger. Several yelled, begging for the king to retract his orders. Dillor gulped and felt his father’s Magic wrap around his ankles, forcing him to stay in place.
The executioner grabbed Richard again and slammed him against the chopping block, raised his sword, and brought it down. The thud of the blade against the block silenced the crowd who stared with wide eyes and paled faces as Richard’s head fell to the platform and gazed lifelessly toward the sky. Richard’s body fell over near Jacob’s and the executioner kicked the body, straightening it out. He raised his sword two more times, slicing through Richard with such precision that the breaking of bones couldn’t be heard. Blood seeped into the wood of the platform, and Dillor’s breakfast came up his throat. He clenched his teeth and pulled his lips into a tight line, forcing the bile back to his stomach.
The execution over, the courtyard below began to empty. King Marcus disappeared through the double doors behind him, his wife trailing behind him. The dukes, lords, and heirs began to leave the balconies, and the servants rushed back inside, but Dillor continued to stare at the three headless bodies on the platform, one cut into fours. Richard’s words rang in his head. Fidelis ris Tréas.
“I do hope you’re pleased, Patrick,” Lord Astile said, passing Dillor and his father. “You could have stopped this.”
“Dangerous words, Rodrick,” Lord Expare replied. Dillor glanced between his father and Lord Astile. The lord, like several other lords and dukes, had pledged new loyalty to King Marcus under fear of death. King Marcus was a strong man, a fighter with sword and Magic. He had killed several nobles, like the Dormans, those Heads of House, who refused to bend to the new regime, the new king. And here Dillor and his father stood, to the eyes of the world, traitors. Traitors to the old king, traitors to the childhood friendships, of the cross between social rank and ideals. Traitors to Austrodai.
Though King Marcus seemed to appreciate their efforts.
And somehow, Dillor knew, Richard did too.
“I’ll let this slip only once,” Lord Expare continued. “But if you’ll excuse us, Dillor and I have a meeting with the king.”
“Your king,” Lord Astile muttered. Lord Expare grabbed Dillor and pushed him ahead, guiding him off the balcony, through the waiting room, into the cool corridors of Grand Quenten. Dillor frowned.
“Must we meet?” Dillor whispered.
“The king requested it.”
Dillor nodded and let his father take the lead. They traveled to the royal chambers, and were admitted by a pale maidservant. Her face was streaked with dried tears, and her hands trembled as she guided the father and son into the parlor. King Marcus stared into the fire, and in the corner, tucked away, stood a young lady. Dillor’s heart thumped painfully. Lady Mercy. His betrothed.
“As you know,” King Marcus said. “High Lord Claar and his sons—after the years of friendship we shared—sided with Abram Josten. As you know, they died. Some to my followers and some to the executioner’s blade. However . . . I believe she belongs to you now.” King Marcus nodded in the direction of Lady Mercy.
“My thanks, sire,” Lord Expare said, bowing. “I was afraid I would have to find a new bride for Dillor.”
“No, no. I am most certain that you will bring her up properly. No, I decided not to break this particular betrothal. Though I suppose . . . .” the king looked toward the fifteen year old. “If my wife hadn’t survived Prince Ivan’s birth . . . .”
Dillor felt heat rush to his face and he tightened his fists. No one would touch Lady Mercy!
“But now I do need to promote someone to High Lord,” King Marcus continued. “You, Patrick, will be the new High Lord. You will be one of my trusted advisors. I expect not to be disappointed?”
“No, sire,” Lord Expare said. “You won’t be disappointed. Thank you for your faith in me.”
“You have proven your loyalty, Patrick.”
With a wave of his hand, the king dismissed them all. Dillor grabbed Lady Mercy and pulled her behind him all the way back to the Expare apartments, his father trailing behind them.
Within the foyer of the apartments, Dillor released Lady Mercy’s arm, falling to his hands and knees, finally vomiting. Lady Mercy yelped and several servants, as well as Lady Expare came running. Lord Expare knelt next to his son, wrapping an arm around Dillor’s waist.
“Let’s move you into the parlor,” Lord Expare murmured. He lifted Dillor to his feet and Dillor leaned heavily against the lord. Together they made their way into the parlor and Dillor slumped on the settee. Lady Mercy hovered nervously near him for several seconds before squeaking and grabbing his hands.
“Dillor! What have you done to your hands?”
Dillor looked down at his palms, his eyes widening as he noticed the blood running from the crescent shaped marks. He looked from one hand to the other, before looking up at Lady Mercy.
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything.”
Lady Expare ordered a basin of water, cloth, and a healing potion. While she applied these to Dillor’s hands, Lord Expare paced in front of the mantel. He stopped mid-step and turned to Dillor.
“Dillor, what did Richard say?” he asked. Dillor flinched, hunching his shoulders as his empty stomach rolled again.
“Richard said something in a different language,” Lord Expare said. “It sounded like he was saying a spell or ritual chant.”
Dillor shook his head. “No. He wasn’t doing that. But he did speak the same language as those.”
“The Ancient Tongue?” Dillor nodded and hissed as his mother applied the healing potion. Lady Mercy perched beside Dillor.
“What did he say?” Lord Expare asked again.
“He said the Blood Brothers Blessing,” Dillor murmured.
“Blood Brothers Blessing?” Lady Mercy asked. “What’s that?”
“It’s what Blood Brothers—those who have gone through the ritual of cutting their palms and clasping their hands in the sharing of blood—say when one of their Blood Brothers is about to pass from this world,” Lord Expare explained. “But I have never heard it in the Ancient Tongue.”
“What does it say?” Lady Mercy asked.
“May the days be warm,” Lord Expare recited. “And the nights short. May your weeks go quick, and the months depart. Carry no burdens, bury your Foes. Forever I pray for your blessed soul.”
Dillor sighed and watched his hands become white with bandages.
“That’s not all he said,” Dillor whispered. “Fidelis ris Tréas.”
“I remember,” Lord Expare murmured. “What’s that mean?”
Tears pricked at Dillor’s eyes and he did nothing as they fell, sliding down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. Lady Mercy placed a hand on his knee. Dillor opened and closed his mouth several times before the words finally made it passed his throat.
“Loyal unto Treason.”
A sob escaped and Dillor covered his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. His shoulders began to shake. Those around him seemed stricken with surprise and emotional pain.
“Loyal unto Treason!” Dillor cried. “It’s going to be the death of me, but I promised him! I promised him and I promised King Abram, I’d follow through and see the Jostens returned to the throne!” He sobbed loudly and covered his face.
“Only . . . I don’t know . . . how strong I am. Loyal unto Treason. It’s not fair. It’s not fair! I should have been there with Richard. I should have been quartered too!” Lady Mercy threw her arms around Dillor and pulled him close. They all fell silent for several moments.
“I swear,” Dillor said, pushing the words past his clenched teeth. “I swear, that no matter what, no matter if the Jostens never again believe in the innocence of the House of Expare, this family will see the House of Josten returned to the Throne of Austrodai. Because I took an oath; to the king and to my Blood Brothers. Richard Dorman and James Josten.” He pulled away from Lady Mercy and stood.
“It is because of me Richard knew when we’d attack, and that he and his brothers would have to stay behind while Prince James ran. The prince will always believe in my guilt, but if this ultimately ensures his family has allies generations from now when they return, then so be it! Loyal unto Treason. The worst, and the best, sort of loyalty.”
Never had an execution been this solemn.
The slow beats of the war drums hit the air and smacked against the stone walls of Grand Quenten, reverberating out of the main courtyard and throughout the rest of the palace. The few who hadn’t dared to show their face at the execution tried to block the noise by slamming their windows shut. Yet the drum beats continued.
From the Lords’ Balcony, Dillor waited by his father, biting the insides of his cheeks. Several times he wished to shift, to look away from the platform down below where three chopping blocks waited, their executioners waiting too.
Over the slow rhythmic beating of drums, the lonely creak of wagon wheels rose to meet the ears of all present. Dillor glanced toward the archway leading from the dungeons, before glancing around the courtyard. Across the courtyard, parallel to him and the other lords and heirs, were the dukes and heirs, and on a small balcony perpendicular to both stood the new king. King Marcus stood with a smug look, his wife sitting nearby, holding the little baby prince close to her as she tried to avoid looking toward the chopping blocks. Around the platform mainly servants stood, Dillor could tell from the uniforms. But there were some people of the city, those who weren’t in uniform.
The creaking of the wagon wheels grew louder. Dillor looked back toward the archway, clenching his fists behind his back as the cage cart moved under the arch, allowing all to have a view of the three Dorman brothers, each gripping the bars of the cage tightly, standing defiantly and staring toward the king. Dillor bit hard at his cheeks until he tasted blood, his lips struggling not to turn up. Even bloodied and approaching death, the Dorman brothers were every inch the dignified nobility they had been raised to be.
The youngest of the three men, Richard, turned his face away from the king and looked out his side of the cage toward the Lords’ Balcony. Dillor met his gaze, feeling as if his breath had been sucked from his lungs. Even from the short distance, he could tell that Richard’s face sported deep black bruises, as did his neck.
Beside him, Dillor felt his father shift and Dillor pulled his gaze from his friend to his father. Lord Expare glanced at him before turning away, a harsh frown crossing his face. Dillor looked back at the cage cart.
The cart was now at the bottom of the platform. Several guards marched forward and pulled the cage’s door open, yanking the Dorman brothers out, shoving them to their knees while they lashed their hands together behind their backs. In the early morning light, Dillor caught the flash of Prohibitors on the brothers’ wrists, and immediately remembered the last time Richard had worn them.
Richard screamed, falling to the hard ground of the chapel, writhing and ripping at his clothes, as if something were attacking him. Dillor raced forward, his tutor not far behind.
“What’s the matter with him?” Dillor cried.
“He’s wearing Prohibitors,” Magician Andes said. “And his Magic is fighting to get through, but can’t. Quick, hold him down so I can remove them.” Dillor grabbed his friend’s arms and pulled them to the floor, holding them tightly even as Richard continued to scream. Magician Andes wrapped a hand over Richard’s wrists. The man’s silver Magic seeped from his hands like silk ropes, wrapping around Richard’s wrists. There was a click, and Dillor was thrown back as Richard’s blue Magic burst from his body, flying throughout the room, sizzling and hissing with pent up energy. Dillor gasped in fear and awe at the display, though he was glad to hear no more screams from his friend.
When the Magic finally disappeared, Dillor crawled to his friend. Richard lay panting on the stone floor, curled into a ball. Tears rolled down the young man’s face.
“Wh-what happened?” Richard whispered.
“Your Magic built up,” Magician Andes explained. “It’s obvious something upset you. Normally you would have let your Magic out, but since you had the Prohibitors on, your Magic had no place to go, but back into your body. Essentially, your Magic was attacking itself.”
Richard, however, didn’t look upset. Even as he was roughly led up the stairs to the platform, his face staid tranquil in look, his shoulders squared and steps sure. His brothers carried themselves the same way.
Each brother was led to a chopping block, and forced to stand before it. The drum beats stopped, and a heavy, uncomfortable silence fell over everyone. King Marcus came closer to the railing of his balcony and sneered down at the brothers. The young men didn’t twitch.
“Today,” King Marcus began. “We will see the last of the followers of Abram Josten, the king who—with radical ideas—would have brought Austrodai to the ground! Behold, the once Noble House of Dorman, the epitome of radicals. Their dangerous ideals consister of allowing women to have inheritance money, to be able to inherit the rank and title to a Noble House, to be able to study the arts and sciences that we men have studied and advanced for the last three hundred years! Their ideas of allowing women to study Magic are insults to the very kingdom of Austrodai! And it is not tolerated.”
King Marcus looked over the crowd and at the nobles. No one dared to move or look away from the man. The tension was thick in the air, almost suffocating. Dillor clenched his fists harder, digging his nails into his palm.
“As a kind man,” King Marcus continued, “I allowed these young men to have the chance to renounce their ideals and return to the ideals of their Fore Fathers. But they refused. Therefore, for the safety of this kingdom and for a lesson to those who will come after, the House of Dorman shall be obliterated!” He waved his hand and the executioners shoved the brothers to their knees. The first executioner pushed the eldest brother, Brenden, over the chopping block, making sure his neck was in the very center of the wood. He stepped back, lifting his arms high, sword gleaming in the sun.
A mighty swoosh, the thud of metal to wood, and Brenden Dorman’s head thumped to the platform, rolling slightly before stopping to stare lifelessly at an unfortunate maidservant in the front of the crowd.
Dillor felt his stomach roll and he slowly breathed in trying to keep from vomiting his breakfast. He watched as Richard turned his gazed back to the king, a dark glare crossing his face. The second brother, Jacob, vomited to the side of his chopping block. Dillor could see Jacob trembling as the second executioner shoved him into place.
The executioner must not have sharpened his sword well, for the sword went almost all the way. Dillor knew from past executions that the victim was usually dead after the first stroke, and from his vantage point it looked like the sword had gone more than two-thirds of the way through Jacob’s neck. The second swing severed Jacob’s neck, and his head rolled off the platform. Richard jerked back as Jacob’s body fell toward him, almost toppling onto him. Richard swung his body around as much as he could, turning large haunting eyes toward Dillor. Dillor adverted his gaze, looking instead toward King Marcus. The king had followed Richard’s gaze, and now stared hard at Dillor. With stiff, respectful movements, Dillor bowed toward the king. A grin spread across King Marcus’s face and he looked back at Richard, who still stared at his childhood friend.
Dillor straightened and shot a frown at Richard. Richard’s shoulders slumped and his head fell toward his chest. The third executioner grabbed Richard and yanked him over the chopping block, pressing Richard’s neck against the wood. He stepped back and Richard straightened, using his shoulders to push himself off the block. The crowd gasped and the executioner moved forward, stilling when King Marcus raised a hand.
“Do you have something to say, Dorman?” the king demanded.
“Ut diebus calere, Et noctes brevis.” Richard said, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd. “Sit tibi weeks ire velox, Et menses, recede. Déan aon ualaí, bury do Foes. Deo pray mé Do anam Beannaithe. Fidelis ris Tréas.”
King Marcus frowned. “What did you say? What do you mean?”
“You should have kept me,” Richard shouted. “You should have kept me! Then you’d know.” King Marcus waved his hand at the executioner.
“Kill him!” King Marcus bellowed. “Quarter him! Make sure his soul never finds peace!” The crowd started to cry out with shock and anger. Several yelled, begging for the king to retract his orders. Dillor gulped and felt his father’s Magic wrap around his ankles, forcing him to stay in place.
The executioner grabbed Richard again and slammed him against the chopping block, raised his sword, and brought it down. The thud of the blade against the block silenced the crowd who stared with wide eyes and paled faces as Richard’s head fell to the platform and gazed lifelessly toward the sky. Richard’s body fell over near Jacob’s and the executioner kicked the body, straightening it out. He raised his sword two more times, slicing through Richard with such precision that the breaking of bones couldn’t be heard. Blood seeped into the wood of the platform, and Dillor’s breakfast came up his throat. He clenched his teeth and pulled his lips into a tight line, forcing the bile back to his stomach.
The execution over, the courtyard below began to empty. King Marcus disappeared through the double doors behind him, his wife trailing behind him. The dukes, lords, and heirs began to leave the balconies, and the servants rushed back inside, but Dillor continued to stare at the three headless bodies on the platform, one cut into fours. Richard’s words rang in his head. Fidelis ris Tréas.
“I do hope you’re pleased, Patrick,” Lord Astile said, passing Dillor and his father. “You could have stopped this.”
“Dangerous words, Rodrick,” Lord Expare replied. Dillor glanced between his father and Lord Astile. The lord, like several other lords and dukes, had pledged new loyalty to King Marcus under fear of death. King Marcus was a strong man, a fighter with sword and Magic. He had killed several nobles, like the Dormans, those Heads of House, who refused to bend to the new regime, the new king. And here Dillor and his father stood, to the eyes of the world, traitors. Traitors to the old king, traitors to the childhood friendships, of the cross between social rank and ideals. Traitors to Austrodai.
Though King Marcus seemed to appreciate their efforts.
And somehow, Dillor knew, Richard did too.
“I’ll let this slip only once,” Lord Expare continued. “But if you’ll excuse us, Dillor and I have a meeting with the king.”
“Your king,” Lord Astile muttered. Lord Expare grabbed Dillor and pushed him ahead, guiding him off the balcony, through the waiting room, into the cool corridors of Grand Quenten. Dillor frowned.
“Must we meet?” Dillor whispered.
“The king requested it.”
Dillor nodded and let his father take the lead. They traveled to the royal chambers, and were admitted by a pale maidservant. Her face was streaked with dried tears, and her hands trembled as she guided the father and son into the parlor. King Marcus stared into the fire, and in the corner, tucked away, stood a young lady. Dillor’s heart thumped painfully. Lady Mercy. His betrothed.
“As you know,” King Marcus said. “High Lord Claar and his sons—after the years of friendship we shared—sided with Abram Josten. As you know, they died. Some to my followers and some to the executioner’s blade. However . . . I believe she belongs to you now.” King Marcus nodded in the direction of Lady Mercy.
“My thanks, sire,” Lord Expare said, bowing. “I was afraid I would have to find a new bride for Dillor.”
“No, no. I am most certain that you will bring her up properly. No, I decided not to break this particular betrothal. Though I suppose . . . .” the king looked toward the fifteen year old. “If my wife hadn’t survived Prince Ivan’s birth . . . .”
Dillor felt heat rush to his face and he tightened his fists. No one would touch Lady Mercy!
“But now I do need to promote someone to High Lord,” King Marcus continued. “You, Patrick, will be the new High Lord. You will be one of my trusted advisors. I expect not to be disappointed?”
“No, sire,” Lord Expare said. “You won’t be disappointed. Thank you for your faith in me.”
“You have proven your loyalty, Patrick.”
With a wave of his hand, the king dismissed them all. Dillor grabbed Lady Mercy and pulled her behind him all the way back to the Expare apartments, his father trailing behind them.
Within the foyer of the apartments, Dillor released Lady Mercy’s arm, falling to his hands and knees, finally vomiting. Lady Mercy yelped and several servants, as well as Lady Expare came running. Lord Expare knelt next to his son, wrapping an arm around Dillor’s waist.
“Let’s move you into the parlor,” Lord Expare murmured. He lifted Dillor to his feet and Dillor leaned heavily against the lord. Together they made their way into the parlor and Dillor slumped on the settee. Lady Mercy hovered nervously near him for several seconds before squeaking and grabbing his hands.
“Dillor! What have you done to your hands?”
Dillor looked down at his palms, his eyes widening as he noticed the blood running from the crescent shaped marks. He looked from one hand to the other, before looking up at Lady Mercy.
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything.”
Lady Expare ordered a basin of water, cloth, and a healing potion. While she applied these to Dillor’s hands, Lord Expare paced in front of the mantel. He stopped mid-step and turned to Dillor.
“Dillor, what did Richard say?” he asked. Dillor flinched, hunching his shoulders as his empty stomach rolled again.
“Richard said something in a different language,” Lord Expare said. “It sounded like he was saying a spell or ritual chant.”
Dillor shook his head. “No. He wasn’t doing that. But he did speak the same language as those.”
“The Ancient Tongue?” Dillor nodded and hissed as his mother applied the healing potion. Lady Mercy perched beside Dillor.
“What did he say?” Lord Expare asked again.
“He said the Blood Brothers Blessing,” Dillor murmured.
“Blood Brothers Blessing?” Lady Mercy asked. “What’s that?”
“It’s what Blood Brothers—those who have gone through the ritual of cutting their palms and clasping their hands in the sharing of blood—say when one of their Blood Brothers is about to pass from this world,” Lord Expare explained. “But I have never heard it in the Ancient Tongue.”
“What does it say?” Lady Mercy asked.
“May the days be warm,” Lord Expare recited. “And the nights short. May your weeks go quick, and the months depart. Carry no burdens, bury your Foes. Forever I pray for your blessed soul.”
Dillor sighed and watched his hands become white with bandages.
“That’s not all he said,” Dillor whispered. “Fidelis ris Tréas.”
“I remember,” Lord Expare murmured. “What’s that mean?”
Tears pricked at Dillor’s eyes and he did nothing as they fell, sliding down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. Lady Mercy placed a hand on his knee. Dillor opened and closed his mouth several times before the words finally made it passed his throat.
“Loyal unto Treason.”
A sob escaped and Dillor covered his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. His shoulders began to shake. Those around him seemed stricken with surprise and emotional pain.
“Loyal unto Treason!” Dillor cried. “It’s going to be the death of me, but I promised him! I promised him and I promised King Abram, I’d follow through and see the Jostens returned to the throne!” He sobbed loudly and covered his face.
“Only . . . I don’t know . . . how strong I am. Loyal unto Treason. It’s not fair. It’s not fair! I should have been there with Richard. I should have been quartered too!” Lady Mercy threw her arms around Dillor and pulled him close. They all fell silent for several moments.
“I swear,” Dillor said, pushing the words past his clenched teeth. “I swear, that no matter what, no matter if the Jostens never again believe in the innocence of the House of Expare, this family will see the House of Josten returned to the Throne of Austrodai. Because I took an oath; to the king and to my Blood Brothers. Richard Dorman and James Josten.” He pulled away from Lady Mercy and stood.
“It is because of me Richard knew when we’d attack, and that he and his brothers would have to stay behind while Prince James ran. The prince will always believe in my guilt, but if this ultimately ensures his family has allies generations from now when they return, then so be it! Loyal unto Treason. The worst, and the best, sort of loyalty.”