Chapter 35: Sweet Dreams and Other Opening Pleasantries

Chapter 35: Sweet Dreams and Other Opening Pleasantries

Aaron had never been out of the city before, but he was there in the dream, in the forest below the cliffs. A shadow moved between the trees, two golden lights set within it. There was never mistaking them for anything other than eyes. Silver flashed below them: teeth, long and sharp. Far more teeth than any creature had a right to. Black fog formed and broke apart above it, swirled, parted, rejoined. Not fog but furtails. Four distinct tails. The fox was a black silhouette cut from the night.

Do you understand? it asked.

He wanted to take a step back. He couldnt.

Do you understand what youre doing, child? What youve changed?

Aaron was holding a blade. Not his; it felt wrong in his palm. It hung in the air, silver as the foxs teeth. He couldnt move his hand.

Yes, he said, but it wasnt his voice.

Its mouth curled into a smile no true fox could make; it was too wide, too curved, too human.

Liar, it said. Then it began to laugh.

He slit its throat, and black shadow came tumbling out. It laughed. He raised the knife again

He couldnt move his hand. He couldnt stop

Aaron woke. Across the room sat a fog of shadows, set with two golden sparks.

People dont like the truth, the four-tailed Death said. The kirin have never understood that. You would do well to remember it.

He couldnt move.

We have such high hopes for you, Aaron, it said. Dont disappoint.

King Liam made it to his seat without incident. The mans Death took up a post by the doors, a patient distance from the proceedings. By then, the crowd had grown silent. With respect would be the kind way to put it. Though Aaron was well kept these days, he was still a cave rat. He could feel it: the tangible hum in the air, the weight of a crowd that expected to be entertained. His stomach clenched down on itself. Mrs. Whites ears flicked his way, and her tail tip curled. Aaron hated crowds. Nothing good ever came of them.

The doors opened again, and the herald announced the petitioning lords. They outnumbered those seated at the table. It was an effect made even stronger by the fact that they would remain standing during their petition. Duke Sung did not hesitate to place himself at their head, and the others formed up behind him, in a manner reminiscent more of troops than of courtiers.

Aaron had heard that the southern lords were old-fashioned, but he always pictured that as being well, quaint. Old clothes, old manners, and old lords clinging to old ways.

Duke Sung was not old. The men and women who stood with him were not quaint. The old ways were what had driven the dragons from Last of the Isles, and pushed the griffins into the mountains of Craghon; it had killed the kirin and the unicorns, the cait sidhe and the pusses. It had dealt with the fey so fairly that even now they wept when the best among men died.

Humanity was too weak to afford mercy. That was the true old way.

The duke dropped to one knee in a petitioners bow, and his men dropped with him, not a heartbeat apart. One fist on the floor, one on the heart, gaze raised and steady.

His Majesty gave leave for them to stand. If there was any voice that was still whispering some side conversation on the benches, any mouse that dared to shuffle its paws along the marble floors, it stopped now.

Your Majesty. My liege.

Aaron did not expect the duke to pause. He did not seem to be the kind of man who would waver in his speech. Who would hesitate, after bringing nearly every lord south of Onekin marching on the capital. He studied the man for signs that it was a theatrical pause, but could find none. That either made him sincere, or a very good actor.

Liam. You know what we ask.

The Wasting King did not so much as blink. Speak it.

The duke drew himself up soldier-straight, his shoulders squared under that immaculate argent coat, one hand gripping his wrist behind his back. He spoke.

Those you see before you stand today, in full view of the kingdom, on behalf of all men. We petition the immediate disinheritance of Orin OShea from the line of your successors, and his execution no later than the melting of the western passes.

If it pleases Your Majesty, the duke finished.