“I am king of Porotane!” shouted Lorens.
Those assembled in the room fell to one knee and bowed their heads. Vered followed their lead, but from one corner of his eye he saw that Baron Theoll’s obeisance to the new king came slower than that of the others. To most, Lorens might be king. But not to the diminutive baron.
“The burial should have been more,” observed Santon. “After all, Freow ruled Porotane for twenty years.”
“Only as regent,” said Vered. “But I agree. It was as if Lorens denied all connection with those who have come before.” Vered wondered if Lorens knew that the dead duke had not been his uncle, had been nothing more than an opportunistic pretender. Even if he did, Vered puzzled over why the young king did not acknowledge Freow’s contribution for so many years.
The wars might have been worse.
“There,” said Santon, nudging Vered in the ribs. “There’re the first representatives from the rebel bands.”
“Only three? Lorens spoke of ten.”
“A start,” said Santon.
Vered watched as the three marched across the vast expanse between the chamber door and the foot of the steps leading to the throne. Harhar cavorted and rolled about at one side of the throne, oblivious to the pomp and ceremony of the occasion. For the first time in two decades, rebels met to discuss a truce.
“At last we meet in the flesh,” Lorens said in a voice an octave deeper than usual. Vered noted how the young king had grown in stature while wearing the Demon Crown; it affected his voice, also.
“We have never met, even in spirit,” declared one rebel leader.
“Not so, Tuvonne. I have visited your secret councils and listened to your schemes. You do not bargain in good faith, not when your soldiers march against the castle under the banner of truce,” Lorens gestured to the guards lining the walls of the immense audience chamber.
“Wait, stop!” cried Tuvonne. “You violate the terms of the truce!”
“You violated them before entering.” The rest of Lorens’ words died in the whistle of arrows flying. Tuvonne screamed as a dozen — more — pierced his flesh.
“Uh, King Lorens,” ventured another rebel.
“You declare allegiance to me, Belmorgan? Or do you allow yourself to be seduced by Tember of Farreach’s sister, Oturra?” Lorens pointed to another rebel.
“No, my king, no!” protested Belmorgan. The man fell to his knee and cried, “I am ecstatic that one of the true royal blood again sits on the throne.”
“Good. Then divert your troops against those of Tuvonne. Destroy that traitor’s force totally.”
“Your Majesty!”
“Destroy them and you will become First Duke of Porotane. And,” Lorens said, sarcasm colouring his words, “if you still want her, Oturra will be your consort.”
“You are most generous, Majesty.”
“Only to those who serve me well.” Lorens turned his attention to the remaining rebel leader.
“You, Tember of Farreach, have one chance only of declaring allegiance to the throne of Porotane. How say you? Loyalty to me or death?”
Tember dropped and pledged his unswerving loyalty to King Lorens of Porotane.
“The others who refused to attend. I know the most intimate details of their battle plans, of their lives. In your service to the throne, this information will be given you. None dare oppose the one who wears the Demon Crown!”
Blazing green swathed his body as Lorens stood and shoved a shaking fist into the air.
Lorens swirled around and vanished through a door immediately behind the throne. Harhar followed Belmorgan and Tember from the chamber, shaking a rattle at them and making lewd comments about Tember’s sister and Belmorgan’s mistress. The men strained to keep their blades firmly in sheath. But Harhar’s intimate knowledge of Oturra’s affairs stayed them. The jester could have learned such matters only from King Lorens — and the Demon Crown.
“The countryside is more awash in blood now than it was when Freow lived,” said Santon. “There seems no end to the double-dealing and merciless battles.”
The two men walked to the battlements. Some distance away Theoll spoke in guarded tones with Captain Squann. Squann’s arm rode high in a sling and bloody bandages attested to his wound sustained in battle for the new king.
“What do they discuss?” wondered Santon.
Vered did not even glance in the baron’s direction. “Plots to overthrow Lorens. Theoll is not the kind to take defeat easily. He has been on the throne, however briefly, and tasted the heady wine of kingly power!”
“Power,” snorted Santon. “What power can mere men bring to bear against the Demon Crown? Lorens sees and hears everything, no matter where in the kingdom.”
“There,” said Vered, pointing. “See how the troops line up along the River Ty? A good tactic. Gaemock must either retreat or sustain massive damage to his flank.”
“The siege was ill-conceived.”
“He had no choice after Duke Freow died.” Vered smiled weakly. “Dews Gaemock might have been king if we had not returned with Lorens. Theoll’s iron grip would have spawned more dissension within the castle than twenty years of civil war had.”
“Nosto could have controlled them with his Inquisition,” countered Santon.
“But the Inquisitor is not totally under Theoll’s power. Not yet. Archbishop Nosto works for his own ends. He might even believe in what he is doing.”
“The saints help us all, if that be true,” said Santon. “Forty-three have been put to the Question and died just since we’ve been in the castle.”
“Forty-three in only nine days,” mused Vered. “Bloody times. Look! Gaemock retreats, as I thought.”
“Even with Belmorgan and Tember supporting Lorens’ soldiers, they cannot score a clean victory over Gaemock. See how he slips away to the north?”
“The Uvain Plateau is a difficult spot to hide in,” said Vered. “Especially when Lorens magically spies on everyone.” A shudder raced up his spine. He fell silent and lost himself in thought.
“Did we do right?” asked Santon. “Bringing Lorens back? Even if it was what Alarice wanted, did we do the proper thing for Porotane?”
“The civil war comes to an end,” said Vered. “More death must precede peace, but it comes. Lorens slowly unites the scattered rebel bands — or annihilates them.”
“Gaemock’s followers are too loyal. He will not be denied the throne.”
Vered said nothing to this. He agreed. Had fate turned in different ways, he might have been a supporter of Dews Gaemock, rebel and thief though the man was.
“We know so little about Lorens.”
“He works swiftly to consolidate his rule,” said Santon.
“But he kills when a better, if slower, way would be through negotiation. He knows the innermost secrets of everyone confronting him. He could use that rather than force of arms. There’s been so much killing. Too much.”
“He changes, even as we watch.”
Both Santon and Vered jumped in surprise at the newcomer. Vered turned to see the court jester behind them. They had been so engrossed in their discussion that neither had heard Harhar approach.
“What are you saying, fool?” demanded Santon.
Harhar shrugged and cut a caper. “He turns cruel. The Demon Crown does it to him. It might do it to anyone enduring its magics night and day.”
“He never removes it?” asked Vered, startled at this revelation. He remembered the way it had affected Lorens when he had donned the crown for the first time.
“Never. And he changes, always he changes. Who’s to say that this is bad? Or good? Not I, not I!” Harhar jumped to the battlements and started walking on his hands along the precipice.
“Porotane will be at peace one day soon,” said Santon. “That is good.”
“Good,” echoed Vered. “Yes, I suppose it is. It is what Alarice sought for the kingdom.”
“The Glass Warrior!” called Harhar. “Such
beauty, such courage. Yes, yes, it is what she sought for Porotane. But is it all that she sought?”
For that neither Vered nor Birtle Santon had an answer.
The Glass Warrior (Demon Crown Book 1) Page 22
