Spirit of the King Read Free Page B

gatehouse passage, she willed the smile from her lips. The reception awaiting the leader of the invading army would not be an occasion for smiles, at least not in the minds of those who surrendered.
    She emerged from the tunnel’s shadow into the courtyard dappled with autumn sun. Over centuries, war after war, battle after battle had ended at the impenetrable fortress wall, dashed against the weathered brown stone—no Kanosee had ever set foot here in the long and turbulent history between the two countries. It had taken a woman—a woman of extraordinary powers, but a woman nonetheless—to finally lead them beyond the storied barricade. She held her head high and stifled another smile.
    People lined the boulevard—mostly soldiers dressed in leather and mail standing rigid and ready, hands close to their weapons, but there were others, too. Smiths and farriers, cooks and physicians and entertainers and whores. No one cheered as four hundred hooves clicked and clattered against the cobblestone boulevard, throwing up occasional sparks from the scarred stones. Not a face wore a smile, nor a look of relief or gratitude. Frowns tugged at the corners of their mouths, expressions of worry and fear creased their features. Their apprehension didn’t surprise her.
    Surrounded by a group of men clad in full plate, Therrador stood on a stone stair leading to a huge building at the far end of the avenue. She recognized the new king easily amongst the group, the red eagle enameled upon his golden plate resplendent in the sunlight; the armor of the other men paled in comparison. The others would be the generals of Erechania, supporting and protecting their king, advising him if need be, and none of them looked any less tense than the soldiers lining the route boulevard.
    But the generals would have no reason to advise him, she knew. He already made his decisions based on the safety of his son held captive in her camp, and he would continue to decide whatever she wanted him to decide, as he did when he agreed to let them into the fortress.
    Although orchestrating the death of King Braymon and arranging Therrador’s ascent to the throne had seemed to work as she’d foreseen, she couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t quite done. Any possibility of a smile disappeared at the thought; the man who carried the blood of the king to the Necromancer had failed in his attempt to raise Braymon, but he yet lived. As long as he did, he posed a threat to the Archon’s plans. She’d have to take care of him, but these were thoughts for another time; she pushed them from her mind and focused on the fortress’ courtyard.
    Beyond the distraught Erechanians, the Archon saw patches of charred earth and wooden outbuildings lying in ruin, their ceilings and walls smashed and burned by the fireballs lobbed over the wall by her army’s catapults. Of course, any bodies had long since been cleared away, and she found herself wondering where Braymon had fallen, what they’d done with the king’s body. She’d have liked to keep his head as a trophy, but she hadn’t thought to mention it to the soldier she’d sent to kill the king.
    What was his name again? Oh, yes: Ghaul. How appropriate.
    She reined her horse to a halt at the base of the stair and Therrador descended, his plate clanking as he signaled his generals to stay. He stopped three steps short of the bottom, his head on the same level as the mounted Archon. His mouth dropped open, recognition showing in his eyes.
    “You,” he said quiet enough only the two of them heard. “You’re the woman from the plains.”
    “Oh, more than just a woman, my dear Therrador.”
    “And you command an army?” he said, eyes narrowing. “The Archon is a woman? And a magician?”
    “Therrador, misogyny and underestimation are two very poor attributes for a king to have.” Therrador noticeably suppressed a shudder as he realized things were measurably worse than he’d imagined. She savored him having