Shattered Throne (Book 1 of The Shattered Throne Series)

by Cate Dean

  Twenty One

  With his hands too stiff to do any more detail work, Micah wandered through the castle, tired from a sleepless night. Thomas followed on his heels, sober and watchful, his hand never far from his sword. Micah appreciated his vigilance; he wished this morning that he could be alone. He ended up in front of Liam’s office, at a loss. He felt like a figurehead, even with his involvement in the petitions.

  “I’ll be in here for a bit, Thomas. Will it be all right if you wait outside? Just for a few minutes.”

  “I will be right here, milord. Don’t try climbing out the window—I’m not up for a chase.”

  “You have my word. I don’t believe my hands are up to the challenge. The days of losing you are behind us, I promise.”

  Thomas smiled. “I’ll hold you to that, milord.” He nodded to Micah and closed the door.

  Micah wandered around the office, feeling less than useless. His council handled the day to day details, as they did with Liam, coming to him for important decisions. Their father had left them a well-run kingdom, created by years of negotiation, and more than a little bloodshed.

  Micah was too young when the border wars happened, but Liam happily replayed all the battles for him when he was older, in excruciating detail.

  With a sigh, Micah sat at his brother’s desk, staring at the piles of paper, the maps, the notes scribbled on scrap pieces and taped together. He smiled when he saw the roll of sticky tape. Liam teased him endlessly when he first brought it to the castle. Now it seemed his brother had found uses for it. Tears stung his eyes and he pushed away from the desk, away from the memories, and moved to the window.

  “Where are you, Liam?” He let the tears slide free, needing the release. “I can’t do this alone.”

  “You are not alone, Micah.”

  “Mother—” He turned, straight into her arms. She held him, one hand rubbing his back as she murmured words of comfort. When he felt more in control, he pulled away. “I’m all right.”

  “I wish you would allow me to help you.”

  He sighed. “I thought I needed to do this on my own, prove that I could be the leader they wanted. But I’m scared, Mother.” He turned away, embarrassed by his lack. “That I will make a mistake I can’t fix. A mistake that will cost lives.”

  “Micah.” Her hands closed over his shoulders. “You have your father’s mind—quick, agile, and able to make decisions in the heat of the moment. But you temper it with thoughtfulness, and the need to examine the problem from all angles.” He glanced back at her, surprised. “I’ve seen you in your workshop, my son. What you imagine, what you create from that imagining astounds me. Take that, and apply it to what you need to do.”

  “All right.” He never thought of looking at the issues like he did his inventions. But now—yes, now he had a starting point. “Will you—I want to look over the proposal Liam rejected. I read the last one, and there were some valid ideas.”

  “You—read it?” She studied him, an emotion he couldn’t read flashing across her face. It disappeared before he had the chance to decipher. “I didn’t know Liam even showed it to you.”

  “He didn’t.” Micah smiled, for the first time in a while. “I snuck it out of his rooms.” His mother covered her mouth, but he knew she hid a smile under her hand. “I know he has it here somewhere.” He eased out of her grip and moved to the desk, shuffling through the piles, and silently cursing his fumbling hands. “Here.”

  Some of the papers had been taped back together, telling Micah that his brother had been more than a little frustrated with whatever was on the pages. He shuffled through them, putting them back in order. Whoever wrote the declarations had, thankfully, numbered them.

  “I want to read over this first,” he said, already scanning the first page. “Would you like to share luncheon with me?”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  “If you can have something brought for Thomas as well, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll go make arrangements. Micah?” She paused in the doorway, her dark blue eyes filling with tears. Oh, no—she was about to break down. He never knew what to do with her when she started crying. To his utter relief she blinked back the tears. “You have grown up so much these last few months. I could not be more proud.”

  He stared at the door for a long time after she left. His mother never complimented him. She was more interested in pointing out what he could improve. But the last couple of days, she had said more nice things to him than his last sixteen years combined. Another change to absorb.

  With a sigh, he turned his attention to the proposal.

  By the time his mother returned, accompanied by kitchen staff loaded down with trays, he was so absorbed he didn’t hear her until she stood next to him.

  “What?” He lifted his head, and his stomach rumbled at the sight of the food. His appetite had not returned to normal since he was sick after the formal supper. “Thank you,” he said to the women, who smiled and curtseyed before they took their leave. “This looks delicious, Mother. Please, go ahead. I want to finish this last bit.”

  “What do you think?”

  He paused, lifting his head. “Did you read this?”

  “Of course. Liam consulted me on a great deal. I was regent for three years, Micah. I know the inner workings of our law, and your brother benefited from my knowledge.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” He cut himself off, rubbing his eyes. “I will appreciate any input. I’m hoping something in here will lead me to the traitors who had Liam taken.”

  “Don’t raise your hopes, Micah. I will be happy to help you untangle anything you don’t understand. But I doubt whoever wrote this would tip their hand so blatantly.”

  “Right.” He focused on the last few pages, until his stomach demanded attention. Loudly. “All right. Sounds like it may be time for a break.”

  Mother already had a plate ready for him, and she handed it over, setting a cup of water next to him. “Now, tell me what you think.”

  “There are some promising bits. Overall, they want too radical of a change, too quickly. But I believe some of it can be incorporated. Maybe. This isn’t my decision to make—”

  “It is now, Micah.” She took his hand. “I know you miss your brother. Until he is returned to us, you made the decision to stand in his stead. That means you have the right, and the responsibility, to do what is best for our people.”

  “My biggest objection is this.” He handed the pages over to her. “These people want a secular government, all but abolishing the freedom of worship. That can’t happen, not here. We have too many citizens who have brought their customs with them, to force everyone into the same mold. Also,” he talked around the bite of meat and bread, “the idea of equal pay for all citizens. It would be impossible. We have too many variables, jobs that take less skill than breathing. A scale I could understand, but this gives no room for negotiation.”

  “I can see the need for some kind of regulation, but you’re correct. That is a section worth further pursuit, don’t you think?”

  “If whoever wrote this would allow any modifications. It’s all so rigid, Mother. Especially the section covering religion.” Micah shuffled through the papers, found the spot he marked. “Father worked hard to combine the disparate religions into one the people would accept. Liam learned the hard way just how important the traditions are to them. This throws all that work out the window—along with the freedom of religious worship he extended to those people coming from other parts of the kingdom. Actually,” he set down the papers, and leaned back, meeting his mother’s intent gaze. “Nothing in this document leaves room for negotiation. I understand why Liam rejected it.”

  “Perhaps if we met with these people—”

  “These people kidnapped me, threatened to kill me. Now they’ve taken Liam only the gods know where!” Micah pushed to his feet, shoved his aching hands in his pockets. “I thought there might be a chance, a way to make this work for everyon
e concerned. But the more I read, the less hope I have for that option.”

  “You can’t mean to give up so easily—”

  “What is your stake in this, Mother?”

  She jerked, as if he slapped her instead of asking her a question. “Nothing. Beyond trying to save the life of my son, and the man I am proud to call son, even if we are not related by blood. Micah, these men will not simply go away, because you reject them. What happened to Liam has proven that. We need to find some sort of middle ground—”

  “Or I could have them arrested, and tried for treason.” He watched for her reaction.

  “That is a possibility, of course. Especially given their actions. What if we go through the document again, highlight what might work, and counter them with it? At the very least, it will show them you are taking their proposal seriously.”

  He surprised her. Again. “All right. I like that idea. Can you take notes for me? My hands aren’t quite up to that today.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything before now?”

  Because it would remind you of my shortcomings. He shrugged off her concern. “I’ve gotten used to it, and I adjust. Let’s start from the beginning, make a note of anything we want to revisit.”

  She laid out paper, picking up the pen and dipping it in the inkwell. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Micah took a breath, and smoothed out the first page. He was about to change the course of his kingdom’s history.

  He wanted nothing to do with it.

  Twenty Two

  Liam didn’t remember the journey through the slave market. He was too busy fighting for each breath. Being draped over the broad shoulder of one of the slavers made it that much harder.

  The man lowered him to the ground, gentler than Liam expected, and guided him down to a low bed. He shook, the agony in his back unbearable.

  “Silver Tongue.” His owner crouched in front of him. “You have to hang on for me, until the healer arrives. Do you understand? I will not allow Barrick to win—and if you die from this, he wins.”

  Liam started to nod; fire scorched his throat, his gasp fanning it.

  “Gods—I wish I could bring the bastard back to life and kill him again. The others told me what you did, protecting the girl from him. I am sorry this was the payment for your care. Stay with me, boy.” His hand cradled the back of Liam’s head, and he realized he had started tilting toward the bed. “Keep your focus on me.”

  Liam swallowed, wishing he could simply pass out. He had never felt such enormous pain. It eclipsed everything, until he couldn’t escape it. Except in oblivion—and maybe not even then. He had received wounds in sword practice that ached even when he slept.

  He closed his eyes, and must have faded again, because the next voice he heard was soft, and decidedly feminine.

  “I can treat him, but he will not be ready for your damned sale. Not by a long shot.”

  “Do what you can.”

  “Leave me to him and I will.”

  Liam wanted to smile at the way she practically snarled. Instead he let out a raw gasp when hands touched his back.

  “Damn them all to the tenth level of Hell.” Her fingers brushed his jaw, and he recoiled. “You need to relax for me. I know you hurt, but I can’t help you if you jerk away every time I touch you.” He started to nod, and froze, fresh pain flaying his throat. “Here.” She cradled his left hand. “Hand straight out, make a fist, move it up and down, like you’re knocking on a door. That means yes.” She demonstrated, her hand in front of his face. “For no, straighten your index and middle finger, bring them down to your thumb, like closing your mouth.” She demonstrated again. “I’ll be sure to ask only yes or no questions.”

  Liam couldn’t see her face, since she sat behind him on the bed, but he heard the amusement in her voice.

  “Now, let’s test it. Does your back hurt?”

  Liam made the gesture for yes.

  “Good. Can you speak?”

  He brought his fingers and thumb together.

  “Very good. I’m going to examine your throat. I know it will hurt you, but if it becomes too painful I want you to grab my arm. That will mean stop.”

  The bed shifted, and she knelt in front of him. He finally got a glimpse of slim, bare arm, before she touched his throat and pain consumed him.

  “—hear me? Liam.”

  The shock of hearing his name opened his eyes. He met a pair of clear green eyes, in a narrow face, and framed by pale blonde hair. She was younger than he thought, and Delta. Father had hated them with a passion Liam never understood. Until his death almost four years ago, very few dared venture into Palamar. The gambler Damian was a notable exception.

  “Yes, I know who you are. You look so much like your father.” That was a comment yes or no wouldn’t help him explore. He filed it away, for when he could speak. If he could speak. “If you’re allowed to heal, yes, your voice will return.” She flashed a smile. “You wear every thought on your face—that is something you’d best change, and quickly. Now I’m going to clean the wounds and apply a salve, then bandage your throat. They need to stay clean, and I will be happy to inform whoever takes possession of you.”

  Liam looked forward to witnessing that conversation. She had fire, and courage, and he found himself staring at her. She pulled her hair back, and his gaze followed her hand, halting at the scars on her left cheek.

  They were new, pink against her soft, pale skin, a crosshatch that was too neat not to be deliberate.

  “Did your mother not teach you it’s impolite to stare?” Mention of his mother laid open old griefs. She died when he was too young to remember more than scents, and the impression of her holding him. “I am sorry. My tongue ran ahead of my mind, as usual. You keep your focus on me, hold still, and stay conscious while I do this, and I will tell you how I received the scars you find so fascinating.”

  He looked into her eyes, and braced himself for agony.

  His throat didn’t disappoint.

  The first touch felt like a hot poker on his skin. She slid her fingers into his hair, cradled the back of his head, and gently tortured him.

  He fought to breathe when she finally dabbed salve on the raw gashes. For the first time, the pain eased. She wrapped a soft cloth around his throat and tied it off, then framed his face with both hands, studying him for endless moments.

  “You did well. Silver Tongue.” She picked up another damp cloth and wiped the sweat off his face. “I’m going to lay you on your stomach now, so I can treat your back. I am sorry this is taking so much time, but I don’t want to damage you more by rushing. All right?”

  He lifted his hand, used the knocking motion. Yes.

  It was a blatant lie, but he figured she knew that. She had seen his wounds, after all.

  “Good. Your arms will have to stay down at your sides, but I’ll keep one eye on your hands. If you need me to stop, say no.”

  She helped him lie down, the least damaged side of his throat resting on the mattress. He closed his eyes, letting her voice drift over him.

  “The bastard didn’t have time to fetch his favorite whip, which is fortunate for you. He prefers a leaded three cat.” Liam swallowed, surprised that it was less agonizing. Whatever she spread over his throat was either numbing him, or he was fading. “I am going to do the same, clean and apply salve. I won’t bandage your back, since I’ve discovered it does no good. Yes, I have treated some of Barrick’s other victims. The man had a temper like a castrated bull.”

  Had. She knew he was dead, then.

  “I normally get more response from my comments. I’ll forgive you for not being more vocal.” This time he smiled, since he figured it wouldn’t hurt his throat. He was wrong. “That is like applause to my ears. Don’t do it again—smiling while flinching is not a good look for you.” She eased his braid over his shoulder, forced to peel it out of the blood on his back. “I’ll wash your hair once we’re done here. All I ask from you this time is t
o breathe, Liam. Just breathe.” She brushed his cheek. “It will be all right if you let go. I don’t need you conscious for this.”

  She touched the deepest gash on his shoulder and he did as she suggested.

  He let go.

  Twenty Three

  “I am here to take you to your lesson.”

  Micah glanced up from the wings, blinking Thomas into focus. Then his words sank in. “Is it that time already?”

  “The captain is waiting in the yard.”

  With a sigh, Micah straightened. “You know how badly this went before, Thomas.”

  “I will be the judge of your skill, or lack of. My lord.” Ari appeared behind Thomas, dressed for training.

  Micah closed his eyes briefly. He had been dreading this moment since he agreed to continue lessons, and put it off longer than he thought he could. “I suppose I will be good for a laugh.”

  “We will see. Dress appropriately, and leave the gloves here.”

  Micah glanced down at his hands. “But I—”

  “They will interfere. I’ll see you in the yard.”

  Ari disappeared before Micah could say anything else. He sighed again, and walked out of his workshop, Thomas next to him.

  “How much should I be dreading this, Thomas?”

  “As much as you possibly can, milord.” He laughed when Micah stared at him in horror. “Ari is tough, but you will learn much, more than I could have taught you. I am a passably good swordsman,” he continued, waving away Micah’s protest. “But the captain is a master, and he will find your strengths—especially the limit of your endurance.”

  “I’m not certain I really need to know that.”

  They stopped at Micah’s rooms, and Thomas faced the corridor. “I’ll wait here for you, milord.”

  Grumbling, Micah walked inside and slammed the door. He could hear Thomas’ laughter even through the thick wood.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ari waited for him in the training yard, a sword in each hand. They did not look like practice swords. As Micah moved closer, his eyes widened. He recognized the sword in Ari’s left hand. It was his father’s sword.