Chapter 20

Cyril

Reaching into his robe, Emric pulled out a vile of amber liquid. "This is the antidote to the wyrm's bane poison coursing through your blood. The ice you feel in your veins, the pain it brings, you are not imagining it. Without this, you've hours. Less."

Cyril's attention narrowed on the vile and he pulled against his restraints, testing for weakness. There was none. Emric spared him a condescending smile before returning his attention to Ettienne.

"Would you like to hear my terms, your majesty?" the priest asked.

"I'd be fascinated. I've little else to occupy my time with just now."

Emric's face darkened, but he got control of himself quickly. "The antidote is yours. As is allegiance of the Order of Orion. We will stand behind you, use our influence and magic to help you reclaim your throne. And to keep it."

Cyril's brows lifted. Of all things Emric could say, this was not even in the realm of anything Cyril had expected.

Ettienne looked unsurprised. Had he seen this coming, or was it an act? If it was the latter, Ettienne was damn good at it, injured or not. "And in return?" the king asked.

"In return, you will repair the citadel and praise the order before all of Massa'eve for its work helping dragonkind. Future elixir competitions may be canceled but you credit the priests' Equinox Trials with finding a dragon dame. You will then implore the order to protect and raise the female, who is much too precious, fragile,and young to roam free."

No. Cyril's nails dug into his skin.

"Is that all?" Ettienne asked mildly.

"You will also invite a priest of the order as an advisor to your council." Emric swirled the vial in his hand. "That will be especially fortunate since I fear wyrm's bane cannot be eradicated from your system, only mitigated. You will require ongoing doses—ones that your advisor will of course provide at each meeting."

Ettienne tilted his head to the side, as if he was actually considering the offer. Cyril had no such patience.

"You want us to hand Kitterny over to you?" Cyril demanded. "That will never happen. You cannot have her. Her or the unborn hatchlings you've been tormenting."

"Are all your sons as slow witted as this one?" Emric asked Ettienne. "I already have Kitterny. And the eggs. They are not up for discussion."

"Tell him Kitterny and the eggs go free or there is no deal," Cyril demanded of his father.

Ettienne snorted. "Don't be daft, Cyril. Emric cannot give up either. The order only controls magic—without a source to generate it to begin with, the priests would be powerless. It is safe to presume they've no intention of relinquishing their power source, or the dame whose blood and body is required to maintain it."

Cyril's fury flared, his muscles straining against his restraints. Of course Ettienne would entertain the notion. The bastard was a king first and foremost. Nothing mattered more than his precious throne. Cyril wasn't sure who he'd kill first if he got free, Ettienne or Emric, but there would be blood and dead bodies on the floor for certain.

The priest pushed his chest out, like a rooster. "Justice for the past, peace for the future," he declared. "I ask for nothing we are not owed by your kind. I will give you a few hours to consider my offer." He placed the amber vile on the floor before exiting the cell. "A token of my good will."

The moment Emric was out of sight and Cyril's restraints released, Ettienne sagged against the wall. He looked even more ashen than minutes ago, his breaths gasping and so desperate that Cyril was suddenly unsure his father would survive long enough for them to even have a fight. He grabbed the antidote and shoved it to Ettienne's lips.

"Drink," Cyril ordered.

The king took the vile into his fist but didn't drink it. He took a breath but started coughing before he could speak. Splotches of blood appeared on his sleeve when he was done.

"Why did you not reject the deal then and there?" Cyril demanded. "Don't tell me you are actually considering letting them have Kitterny." Because I will kill you if so.

"Why did you turn away from your birthright?" Ettienne whispered, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

"Really? This is what you want to discuss now?"

Ettienne coughed again, this time not stopping for a solid minute. It didn't sound good. "That is the only thing we must discuss now." He gasped and gripped Cyril's forearm. The truth please, Cyril. There is too much at stake for lies."

Cyril pulled out of his father's grip and rubbed his face. "Do you recall dispatching me to Ravencrest?"

Ettienne raised a brow. Of course he remembered. It had been the last time Cyril had worn the heir apparent uniform. The mission was straightforward—he was to lead a contingent of warriors to the blight border villages that were being raided by hordes of the blight creatures. Not just the usual piranhas and sclices, but also shrouds of nightwing devouvers—deformed bats the size of horses who killed anything that moved in the night.

"Ravencrest was a key trading crossroads," Cyril continued. "You suspected the Serpari had lured nightwings there to destroy the town's defenses so they could take over the territory."

"Hm-hmm."

"The battle went poorly. We'd underestimated the nightwings' numbers, and were taking too many losses for me to stomach. I ordered a retreat over Tavias's objections. He wanted to go back the next night. He told me if we waited then everything we fought for would be for naught."

The too familiar command tent filled Cyril's memories, the screams of the wounded echoing inside him.

"I wanted to give the healers time to tend the wounded. Tavias disagreed. ‘If they can't walk, they can't be fixed. You don't get to save everyone, Cyril. The world, the blight, it doesn't rutting work that way.'

"I overruled him. By the next morning, I discovered that he'd been right. The blight hoards had reclaimed everything we'd fought for."

Ettienne grunted and shifted painfully into a more comfortable position. Cyril didn't help him.

"If you think I'll believe that you ran from the crown because a battle didn't go your way, then you've forgotten who you are talking to," Ettienne said. "I know you, Cyril. What was the real reason?"

Cyril swallowed. "The loss wasn't the reason, no. It was what I did next. I was angry. No. Enraged. The attacks were unnatural, even for blight's filth. We'd already suspected that the Serpari had a hand in luring the creatures, but it seemed likey that they'd had help. A network of traitors from Ravencrest itself and other nearby towns. That's when I gave the order to round up every male of fighting age in the entire territory and press each and every one of them into service."

Cyril's jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth scraped together and he had to work to get himself talking again. "Everyone. Farmers, healers, blacksmiths, teachers, youths barely old enough to lift a blade. I'd lost many soldiers, but I could make up for their loss with civilians. They could make up in numbers what they lacked in skill. I didn't care how many of them died. These people, and their neighbors, were complicit in the attacks. It was only just that they reaped what they sowed. Like I said, these weren't just towns—they were vital trading posts. Massa'eve was owed for the losses we'd taken."

Cyril paused and studied Ettienne's face for reaction. Disgust or condemnation or understanding. There had to be something. But Ettienne just sat with his head cocked, as if listening to a mildly curious tale. When the silence grew too long, Cyril continued.

"Tavias tried to talk me out of it. He shouted and nearly brought lightning down on the command tent itself. And then he brought in one of those civilians I'd ordered conscripted—a frightened, too skinny boy. He tripped over his own feet just walking into the tent and could barely lift the sword he'd been given. I could see he had no notion of what to do with a weapon.

"Tavias ordered the boy to explain why he was to fight. The child just told me that such was the will of the crown of Massa'eve. He understood nothing of what was happening, but he would die just the same. Tavias told me that the boy was assigned to the front lines, with others like him. Fodder. There was no other use for them on the field."

Ettienne made a non-committal sound with the back of his throat. "Since that battle, the one to retake Ravencrest and the trade routes, never happened, I presume you saw the error of your ways and called off the assault?" A narrowing of Ettienne's brows said he presumed no such thing.

He was right. He was always bloody right.

"I called off nothing," said Cyril. "I took out my blade and struck the boy down where he stood. Then, told Tavias to expect similar consequences for any other manipulations he intended to attempt."

"Ah," said Ettienne. "And then?"

"Then Tavias punched my lights out, took command and controlled the damage. When I finally came to and realized what I'd almost done, I knew that I should never have the power to give such an order again."

Ettienne stretched out his long legs. "I never learned the truth of that until now. An impressive feat to keep such a secret from me." He paused. "You know, Tavias did disobey a direct order. During active combat. That's treason. At the very least he deserved to be lashed within an inch of his life. Had such a thing not occurred to you?"

A snarl rose from Cyril's chest, "If anyone deserved a lashing, it was me, not Tavias. And I'd have taken it without complaint."

"In fact you did," Ettienne made a motion with his hand. "Proverbially speaking."

Cyril shook his head. His father had asked for the truth and the truth was given. He didn't wish to discuss it. "Do you see now why I cannot rule Massa'eve?"

"I've learned nothing I did not know, Cyril. You were never destined to be a general. You care too much. Feel too much. Commanding troops is your brother's destiny. Ruling Massa'eve is yours."

"How can you say that after?—"

"After what? Hearing that you don't imagine yourself amongst the gods? You took your general's council. Tavias having made his point with knuckles is irrelevant. He is your bloody twin. You've spoken with fists since you came out of the womb. Don't delude yourself into thinking it was the punch—and not your choice to yield to it—that made the difference. Or that you'll never use your own fists to enforce your point." Ettienne stopped and panted, his breath dissolving into another long coughing fit that left him too exhausted to move for several minutes. When he looked at Cyril again, his eyes had a glassy sheen, the pupils wide and unfocused.

"I've used my fists to make my points as well," Ettienne said, though his words were weak now. Just above a whisper. "Sometimes it worked. Sometimes not. And I've been jerked up short too. That mate of yours. I'd wanted her dead. Quinton… Quinton gave me that same punch Tavias gave you. And thank the stars he did. Thank the stars for her. For your pack. The eggs."

"Ettienne?" Cyril scrambled for the potion, still clutched in the king's hand, but Ettienne would not release the vial. Instead, Ettienne removed his sigil ring from his finger, his powerful hands trembling so badly that he nearly dropped it altogether.

Cyril's breath froze as he caught sight of that blackened leathery skin spreading down Ettienne's wrists. "You have to take the antidote. Ettienne. Father. There is no more time for games. You have to take it now."

"There were never games," Ettienne said, placing the sigil into Cyril's hand. "The priests took my life the moment their bolt pierced my lung. They want to leash me now. Control me. Make me do their bidding just to get the next dose of the antidote. That is not the king Massa'eve needs. And not the life I can accept. Nor will I let them use me against you." Ettienne's eyes fluttered closed.

"Father!" Panic rushed through Cyril's chest .

Ettienne opened his lids with painful slowness. "Drink the antidote, Cyril. Drink it now. You… you may need it if their weapons… if you take a wound. You've a kingdom to protect. And a mate. You've… you've my grandchildren to bring to freedom. I pledge it all… I pledge it all to you… my liege."