You're only second rate.

All the ponderings and musings of the day dissipated from Larkin’s mind as his eyes ran over the tiny girl standing in front of him. As he faced her, he shut the door behind him. The night engrossed them both, and Larkin slipped the glove from his left hand to reach out and touch the delicate, rosy cheek on Stelon’s face.

“Stelon,” he whispered. A small smile crossed his face. This girl was so worthless to him. He paid no mind to those who tried to tell him this. He paid no mind to anything anyone tried to tell him. He would come to his own conclusions, yet this one felt so unimportant to him. The long, bare fingers of his hand slid down her cheek to her frail neck and down. The fabric of her dress fell easily away from her pale shoulder.

“I apologize for coming so late; it appears you were almost asleep?”

Stelon smiled shyly at him and shook her head. “Oh no, I don’t mind.”

Larkin watched her gaze drop and he lifted his hand from her bare arm to lightly touch her chin with his finger. Her eyes returned to his and remained locked there.

“I am sorry that we must do this tonight, but I have postponed it long enough,” Larkin’s face hardened momentarily, then as if remembering himself, it softened again. “I allowed you rest after the trauma you have suffered, but now I need you to cooperate with me.”

“Lord,” she said breathlessly, “I will do anything you ask of me.”

This he knew, staring into her eyes, having trapped her will in his.

Before Larkin began his soft questioning of her, several thoughts sped across his consciousness. There was a lust in him for her, he would not deny it. Lust that was gentle, soft, even purposeful; a feeling foreign to him. Following that, what to do with her once he had extorted all knowledge she had of the sorceress and the boy. He could not ignore that pulsating feeling that there was something he was not thinking of, something he was missing – that Stelon was a piece of the puzzle he could not yet fit into place. Something telling him, keep her

(touch her)

“Does the sorceress care enough for you to rescue you from me?” Larkin knew the answer to this question, but he could not resist alienating Stelon further from Miraye.

She hesitated to answer, as if she was unsure of what to say.

“I… she tried to kill you, she is a murderer…”

“Is there a chance she would come for you, if she knew you were here?”

“No, I do not want her to come for me.”

“But would she?”

“She was so intent on killing you. I am nothing to her. If she comes back, it will be to kill you.” At this, Stelon’s eyes became glassy.

“You mean nothing to her,” and Larkin willed this into Stelon’s mind. A glimpse of her pain and he stoked the fire.

But he misjudged the pain. This did not bother her, Miraye no longer her hero, no longer someone she could trust. What bothered Stelon so clearly now, with the windows to her soul thrown open, was the loss of her new savior: Larkin. He brought his bare hand and his gloved hand to the sides of her face. It jarred her and the connection was broken. She tore her eyes from his face and squeezed them shut.

She began to whisper an apology and Larkin placed his thumb over her lips, gently hushing her.

“You are exhausted and I should be ashamed reminding you of that dreadful, cold witch.” He turned her gently toward the entryway into her bedchamber. He guided her through with his hands on her shoulders and gently sat her on the side of the bed. It seemed the brief hypnotism had left her somewhat dazed but she was quickly recovering.

Larkin blew out the candles and the room fell into darkness, barely lit by the moon.

He returned to stand in front of Stelon. The look on her face he saw surprised him. It was of suspicion.

“Why was he so afraid of you?”

Larkin turned his head slightly and lifted his chin. His fiery eyes lit and he narrowed them.

“Who?”

“Tic,” she answered.

He had not suspected such an inquiry from Stelon, nor such a look on her face. He wanted to slap it off. Instead, he removed his remaining glove and placed it in his jacket pocket with the other. He took off his jacket and put it on the bed next to the girl. He could feel her eyes searching his face for the answer.

Larkin knew too many seconds had elapsed for her to believe anything now. Still, he knew she could be persuaded to believe anything. What he had to say was only half the truth. She knew the silence between them held another answer.

“He is a member of the SINK, a budding rebel. He was a prisoner and he was on the verge of betraying every secret they have to me. A traitor has much to fear; now he is also a fugitive.”

Stelon lowered her eyes, a defeated look on her face. So trusting, so easily manipulated.

There was a sound and Larkin looked over his shoulder at the entry way. Someone was knocking on the door. Larkin went to it.

“This better make my night, or you will regret finding me here,” he hissed at the two men standing in the hallway. They shrank somewhat at his words. The man on the left was dirty and looked like he’d just been running for his life. He was trying to keep his soldier’s composure. The other man was there to help explain the situation.

“They found the boy, and the sorceress,” he said, watching warily for Larkin’s reaction. He was not ignorant of the way Larkin sometimes reacted to bad news. One who had to work in close contact with Larkin had to become accustomed to the risk of death.

“Take me to them,” Larkin ordered.

“They did not return with either, your highness.”

At this, Larkin turned to the beaten guardian and grabbed the man by the garments at his shoulder. He yanked him closer and demanded, “Then why did you even bother to show yourself? You interrupt me, here, in the middle of the night, to tell me you failed?”

“Sire,” the mean pleaded, “she killed everyone. The boy, he is a sorcerer as well.”

Larkin scoffed, “The boy has no power.”

“One of the villagers was burned to death. She was barely more than ash; I watched it all with my own eyes. He brought her back to life.”

“He is a healer,” Larkin whispered.

“We were in a community in the Hond area, and we were doing as instructed. The sorceress…”

“Shut up,” Larkin snapped at him, shoving him away. “You let them both escape. Since you are the only survivor of your regimen, that makes you highest ranking, and therefore responsible.”

Turning to the other man, Larkin instructed him, “Have men return to the village with trackers. They will follow the trail and send word to me of what they find. Should they find the boy, he is to be brought here. Kill the sorceress.”

Larkin stepped back inside and slammed the door shut. He stood staring at it, hands in fists at his sides. The boy, a healer? He briefly recalled the pain Tic had inflicted on him once, twice, before. Yes, perhaps the boy did possess certain power. Larkin’s fingers relaxed and he brought his hand to his chest, touching the stitched wound through his shirt. All the healers brought to him had proved disappointing. Having someone who could heal a person on the brink of death would be useful, wouldn’t it? If only that bitch hadn’t been there to protect Tic, the boy would be in his possession now.

Stelon had left the bedroom at some point and was standing behind him. How long she had been there, he didn’t know. He turned to face her.

Proclaim thy warrior song.

Archine Tuolo was old, very old. His hair no longer grew and what teeth he had were fake. The fingernails on his frail hands periodically fell off. And did not grow again. His back had weakened and become a hump; to walk he used a cane. Around his feeble neck, he wore one large tooth strung on a strand of gold. It bothered Larkin’s eyes to have to look at this disgusting exhibit of age.

There were things only this man could tell him, however. Tuolo claimed to remember the days when Larkin’s castle had not yet been conceived. Larkin estimated this to be six hundred years ago, but history no longer subsisted to him. It was in the minds of the old and dying now. All historical documents had been destroyed. Genealogy, ownership, laws, land lines – nothing but ashes now.

Everything belonged to Larkin. He was the new beginning.

Time had distorted Tuolo’s voice. He wheezed every so often, sounding more and more like his insides were becoming hollow. In his hoarse, dreadfully aged voice, he tried to shout, “you are the prophetic evil of our time!”

“And you,” Larkin smiled, “you fear change.”

They stood facing each other in an empty, vast hallway on the far side of the castle. Windows lined the length of one wall, the moonlight shining directly through onto them. Larkin turned his back to the light, clasped his gloved hands in front of him, and stared down at the man who was barely half his height. That ugly face turned up to him, eyes nearly gone beneath folds of wrinkled skin. But in those tiny black eyes were both hate and fear.

“The stink of death follows you,” hissed Tuolo, “I bow to no serpent.”

Larkin’s hand cupped the side of the old man’s face. The expression there suddenly began to change. The set in Tuolo’s jaw relaxed, his eyes opened from narrowed slits to stare blankly into Larkin’s own.

“Tell me of the tower, Tuolo.”

“What do you want to know?” he wheezed, tears slipping down his cracked and spotted cheeks.

“I already know that He is dead. Every last pathetic one of them is dead. I want to know where it is. The magnificent and legendary castle tower; you will tell me how to reach it. Tell me how to penetrate its walls.”

“He lives,” Tuolo gasped, “over the Perandes, hidden first in the Mists of Her Breath and then inside the twists of his tower.” Tuolo was visibly struggling for control of his body and mind, his feeble arms desperately trying to raise, to knock away Larkin’s hands. He bared silver teeth and hissed, “He will strike you down.”

“Is this so?” Larkin asked, amused, smiling. He stroked the man’s fuzzy cheek with a leather enclosed finger. The light glinted on the tip of that finger, where something deadly peeked out.

“He sees all. He sees you and He knows you will come.”

“Ancient Tuolo, I once believed the very same. Long live our shadowy King, whom has been abandoned in his tower, forgotten and alone.”

A tiny droplet of blood shone red on the side of Tuolo’s face.

“I am King now,” Larkin said, releasing Tuolo from his gaze. The old man stepped back and brought a hand to his cheek. His knees began to buckle.

As Larkin turned away from the old man, Sashin walked toward him from the end of the hallway. There was a reserved expression on his face and he went to both knees in front of Larkin. He did not rise until Larkin gave an exasperated sigh and granted him permission. Still then, Sashin did not look up into his face and kept his head bowed.

Archine Tuolo thumped to the floor a moment later.

“You killed my priesthood,” he said.

Larkin laughed. “You killed your own priesthood with whores and diamonds. I don’t have the desire to replace your men. They were mere servants to you. I am glad you are here, however, so that I may tell you that you belong to me now. Nothing you have is yours any longer. Your robe,” Larkin reached out and pinched the fabric on Sashin’s shoulder, “is mine. Stay in the temple, if you please. I will be needing your services in the future.”

Larkin rubbed the tips of his fingers over his own robe and walked past Sashin, but paused and turn, his eyes set on the crumpled body behind Sashin. “And have someone take care of that mess,” he said.

“She is alive,” Sashin called after him.




Jannika and Aurora sat on the right and left hand of Larkin, Aurora barely picking at her meal. Larkin did the same, but for reasons that he made apparent were due to taste. Talos sat a seat down from Jannika, and a seat down from Aurora sat Elborg.

“The councils have been initiated into the cities,” Talos said. He was generally a quiet man, choosing only to speak when it was necessary. The other two men were much the same, and Aurora had gradually picked up this habit. Now it was Larkin who chose to speak more often. He was preoccupied and did not display concern for what his cadre had been doing for him. The complete renovation of a government was not a simple thing.

But instating himself as dictator – Larkin found himself with little trouble. His health bothered him, however, and he complained about a lack of appetite and feeling often faint.

Jannika was not gullible. He had not seen the often-spoke-of wound in Larkin’s chest, but felt it affected the man little. These small displays of weakness were, to him, and obvious attempt to fool one of them into underestimating the ruler. To the others, the feigning was entirely believable. But Jannika, like Larkin, could rarely be lied to.

It was Aurora that was the weak one. When out of Larkin’s sight, she became angry and nervous, deeply worried and her face became years older than it was. If one of them was to ever betray their King, it would first be Aurora. She did not openly disagree with Larkin’s orders, but unwisely let her disapproval show.

Elborg, who was disgusted by a woman being in such a high position, was conspiring to kill Aurora. Not with his own hands, but politically. The moment she spoke against the King, Elborg would first to Larkin’s ear. In Larkin’s court, there was little difference between political disaster and death. Elborg rarely left Aurora to work alone.

After having the servants take his plate and bring him something fresh, Larkin began to take small bites, staring fixedly out the dining hall windows. The thoughtful look on his face succeeded in gaining the other’s attention. Each time he swallowed, they expected him to speak, but again he took another bite. The moment they decided he wasn’t going to say anything, Larkin spoke.

“You have three days to have everything in order, then we are going to the tower.”

“What?” Aurora looked up.

Larkin was standing from his chair and looked at her sharply. “Your eyes are swollen, Aurora. It looks like you haven’t been sleeping. What is it that keeps you from sleep?”

Aurora lowered her eyes to her plate. She was not defeated, only angry. Despite years of hiding her emotion, she lost all ability to control her features and they revealed all the King. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin while staring at her, then said, “Each one of you may leave someone in your place to keep order here. I will have a communication line spread from here to the tower for emergencies.

Jannika?”

“Yes, sire?”

“There is a fine multitude of trained soldiers, I presume?”

Jannika nodded. Unlike Aurora, he was not surprised Larkin opted for them to approach the tower. He had, in fact, expected it sooner. “An excess, your majesty.”

“Good. I have a map for you. It’s in my office. Would you like to join me?”

There was a glint in Larkin’s eyes that pleased Jannika. Something told him Larkin’s visions were beginning to reveal themselves. The mystery with which Larkin spoke to them and evaded their questions would finally dissipate.




After giving Jannika his instructions, Larkin went to see Stelon. Every time he chose to see the girl, he felt as if the decision had been made by someone else. Somewhere, inside of him, his voice of reason was reprimanding, telling him this was all a waste of his precious time, but he could barely hear it. He opened the door to her room, found the room lit only by candles, and sweetly called her name.

Snakes in our blood.

He drew the bath himself. Steam drifted up all around him as he stepped in, sliding down the porcelain to submerge his body. Candlelight flickered off the water, and the bloody stains Larkin left on the sides of the tub reflected on the surface like black snakes. With his eyes closed, Larkin did reflecting of his own while the baby’s blood washed away from his skin.

He had known it was going to happen; Stryphus would come. It tickled him deep in his chest, where the wound went clean through. He had had a feeling that the night would not be an ordinary one. The invocation had worked as he had known it would, if not he would never have given the priest his time. Larkin had known all along. In his mouth was still the taste of infant’s blood and he put his finger on his lips, touching the crusted black substance there. And he mightily believed it all. There was no trick in it. He was no fool. No man could scam The Shrike.

Though the entire day he had tried to convince himself that it was nonsense. His strong disbelief in such things nagged at him, yet his very life was proof that he was wrong. Which bit at him, ever so slightly, that he had never believed. Now he did. He believed very well. In his mind, the liquid wings of a dragon beat. Stryphus, the muscle of all Gods, had given him a very precious thing. No one would stop him now. Not without facing the wrath of his God. Stryphus.

No one.

The first light rose and Larkin was roused by the sounds of servants in his chambers, in the main rooms. He stepped out of the bloody water, now cold, which clung to his skin still and stained him red. It seemed more than it had been. He touched his chest. Perhaps he had bled into the water some of his own. Donning only a robe, he left the bath chamber and went to the comfort of the fireplace, where fresh pine logs burned and filled the room with that sweet smell.

The nervousness of the servants he saw, but it was little to him than it would be under other circumstances. A woman tried to approach him and speak to him of the girl Stelon, but with an annoyed flick of his wrist, she shut her mouth with a snap. Her eyes never lifted to look upon him. Not a single servant dared a glance, even at his back.

“Fetch Joanithyn,” Larkin said, “my neck pains me.”

Joanithyn’s arrival was announced by the jingle and jangle of jewelry. He wore gold and silver from head to toe and the only part of him that was not adorned with jewels were his hands. These were soft, kept smooth as a baby’s downy head by the finest of oils, and reserved only for Larkin. He spread them over the center of Larkin’s back, fingers pressing and smoothing down the muscles up to the neck as the man laid on his bed. Aurora had come to speak with him and sat nearby on a cushioned chair, sipping something that smelled of mint.

With a pillow beneath him, Larkin picked at the purple meat of a round fruit and listened as Aurora spoke.

“I have councils being prepared. There was some trouble with Eestur, but it was taken care of. They are good men, sire, loyal to the core. With the threat of our friend Grub, I’m sure they will have little courage to defy you. Once we climb this mountain, the rest is an easy downward march.” She cleared her throat, “I had to issue an order of execution on Bakur Tilon.”

“Pity,” Larkin murmured, “And his family?”

“Taken care of.” Aurora took a sip from her glass, peering over the rim at Larkin. Joanithyn was engrossed with easing the pain in Larkin’s neck and back, carefully avoiding the gape of Larkin’s undressed wound. Lowering the glass, Aurora took a deep breath and said, “I couldn’t help but notice the movement of troops. They know, sire, everyone knows. Fear has been planted deeply in their hearts. The soldiers, they move in the streets as if waiting. I have seen them in the castle. Your army. These men have caused quite a disruption in our organized chaos. A bird told me the elven villages have been abandoned.”

There was a loud sucking noise as Larkin pulled the fruit away from his mouth, having taken a large chunk of it out, revealing a bright red center of tiny black seeds. He chewed and licked his lips, examining the inside of this delicious, sweet thing, “They were a ball and chain on our economy. May they die in the black forest. The desert. On the seas. Where ever it is they think will give them escape. Fit for little more than grunt work.”

“The insurgents have no distinguishing marks, my lord. They will be harder to get rid of. The usage of brands they’ve given up. I know what step number two is, do not leave me in the dark. I see it on your face. All of this, they are at the heart of it.”

“Aurora, you know otherwise; it is simply my love for the people that drives me.” Larkin’s mouth turned up into a smile, “I saw our empire falling. I saw a dead man who stood as our king. I saw the ruin and the pollution of our people and I alone have the power to make our world right. My confidant , my friend,” Larkin held his hand out for Aurora’s and she placed her fingers in it, eyebrows knitted together, “The rebels weaken us. We must destroy them, take no chances. I will fall on them like fire and plague.”

He kissed the back of her hand, saying to it, “Doubt means death.”

She nodded, pulling her hand away, “I will return to my work, sire.”

Flow unto me.

Darkness suddenly spread over the room. Larkin lifted his eyes to see that other priests had entered, placing concave silver pieces over the torches to put them out. They stood all around in a circle, their pale faces glowing in the blackness, floating like ghosts. The only light now came from the gap in the ceiling, high above their heads, where the moons sent a dim light down to them. The pillows were arranged around the middle pool of water, Sashin on one side and Larkin on the other. They sat, Sashin with the baby in front of him, the little thing screaming and wailing. The cut was minor and trickled very little blood, but it was enough for the time being – a priest brought Sashin a tiny silver dish which he slid over the cut, gathering enough blood to pool in the bottom of it.

“You must remove your robe, sire,” Sashin said. The underling priest came around the pool of black water to extend the dish of blood to him. Before taking it, Larkin removed the robes from his shoulders and slipped out the laces of his shirt, pushing it down with them. He held the dish in his hands and looked to Sashin, amusement on his face. Sashin tried to hide his displeasure that Larkin’s seriousness had gone. The baby hiccupped and he stared down at it. He was almost sick. This was the sort of play that entertained Larkin, his King. Gods save him if this spell did not satisfy the man.

He wondered what came of the whore he had pulled off the streets, the one Larkin had sought for after their last visit.

A smile lifted Larkin’s lips, “Do you want me to drink this, the blood of an infant?”

It was not meant to be an infant. Sashin pushed the hood from his head and met Larkin’s eyes. They shone with fire, yet he felt goose bumps lift the skin all over his body. “A sip.”

Larkin’s red tongue wet his lips and he lifted the tray to his mouth, tipping it slightly. The priesthood looked on, watching as he pulled his lips into his mouth, cleaning them of the blood. Baby’s blood. The priest standing next to him took the dish and dipped down his finger in the remainder of the substance. With it, he made seven red marks across Larkin’s shoulders and collarbone. Sashin had made his own markings, rubbing a large red circle into the center of his forehead. The baby howled when Sashin touched her. Its screams echoed off the walls.

“How long must I endure that sound?” Larkin asked, chin tucked against his neck to stare down at the blood on his chest. His wound was unwrapped and had not yet begun to bleed again.

“Not long,” Sashin whispered. He stood, motioned for Larkin to do the same. He picked the baby up out of its blanket, and held it naked, facing Larkin. It screamed and the blood flowed, small trickles oozing down its fine skin. The baby curled its hands into fists and kicked its legs. Every few seconds it paused wailing to suck in a breath of air. The priest with the tray sat it down on the edge of the pool and came to Sashin. He bent to pick up the dagger and lifted it, waiting for instruction. He stared at Sashin, the expression beneath his hood doing no good to hide his dislike of this ritual.

Sashin looked past the child to Larkin. He did not dare to question Larkin a third time. But he waited, let the moments go by in hopes that the man would change his mind. But Larkin did no such thing. He mouth remained closed, his eyes bore into Sashin.

The priests that had stood in the shadows moved forward. They began to link hands with one another. Sashin’s voice rose above the child’s cries, speaking in a language Larkin was familiar with. It was old, ancient, in use only by the Lune priests. Larkin smiled as he listened. Sashin was calling upon Stryphus to see their sacrifice, to hear them and to touch them with his power. To grant them their requests and spread their curse like a plague. It was a curse Larkin had wanted.

A curse on the boy.

Amongst other things. Sashin asked the God for Larkin to be triumphant against his enemies. He asked that all who Larkin commanded would bow to him or break beneath his feet.

Movement caught Larkin’s eye. He glanced down to the pool. The moon was moving to reflect itself in the black water. It moved as if time had sped and Larkin could not take his eyes from it. Sashin’s words blurred together and they became a chant, the other priests joining in. The same phrase, over and over again.

They were asking for Stryphus’ presence.

The moon covered the entirety of the pool, reflecting orange into the room. Sashin’s eyes glowed with it. Larkin looked up to see the open mouth of the baby, though its screams drowned out in the voices of the priests. He felt a burning suddenly and he lifted his fingers to the blood on his chest. They burned like fire on his skin.

A long red line of liquid fell to the surface of the pool. It spread over the orange moon as if the water had rejected it. It bled onto the moon, covering it in red. The baby had disappeared from Sashin’s hands and the priest beside him held the silver dagger at his side, dripping with blood. The burning on Larkin’s skin grew intense and the voices louder in his ears. He resisted the urge to wipe the blood from himself, to cover his ears so he would not hear the deafening chant.

Stryphus.

The bloodied water stirred. The surface bulged and shrank, finally erupting into the air. Sashin ran to Larkin, screaming at him over the voices, “You speak the curse, my King!”

Larkin did not step back from the water and blood as it stretched up to the ceiling, forming something. It writhed like it was alive, colored in dark, dark red. Sashin had the dagger now and was cutting the stitches in Larkin’s chest.

“I will be Master over this land and beyond it,” he said to the shape. Sashin cried at this. Demand nothing, he screamed, ask and you will receive. But Larkin did not heed this. He pushed Sashin aside and stepped forward. “If the sorceress lives, I will have her die at the hands of those she loves.

“I will have her dead.

“I will have a curse on all who oppose me and their blood kin.

“I will have the boy; he shall never find peace unless it is with me. You will bring me the boy. Instill upon him the deepest feeling of urgency. He will know. All whom he loves and love him shall perish.”

Sashin was on his knees, clutching at Larkin’s pants, telling him he would anger the God. The shape now formed a great winged creature. The bloody wings moved in slow rhythm. A snouted head on a long neck twisted up over them and stilled as if to watch and listen. Sashin was consumed with fear; his body trembled against Larkin’s leg.

Only he and the priest remained. The others had fled.

A great rumbling sound shook the stone walls. It threw Larkin from his feet. The pillows softened his landing. The wound in his chest bled onto the fabrics and he placed his hand over it to stop the flow. He turned his face to peer up at the colossal shape, and realized the rumbling was the voice of Stryphus. He felt something deep inside of him, a belief, a knowing, a certainty.

The rumbling went on and though Larkin tried to listen, to decipher the words, he couldn’t.

”Priest,” he shouted.

Sashin was still on his knees, clutching at his chest. His eyes were squeezed tight and his mouth moved but Larkin heard nothing. He moved close and placed his ear near Sashin’s mouth. The priest was speaking, “… no peace beyond the presence of my son…

“… unto my son the mastery of all in his eyes…

“… unto my son…”

And Sashin fainted into Larkin’s arms, only to be thrown to the ground. Larkin stood and turned to the dwindling shape, falling to the edge of the pool as it receded into the water. The ripples stilled and the color faded, leaving the water black and empty.

Love me tonight.

The official cadre became Larkin, Aurora and three men who had been in line to take a governor’s seat. Though Larkin had stripped that title from them, he promised far better things. They were Jannika, Talos, and Elborg, loyal to the core. Larkin was proud of his selection. Aurora, now second in command, approved, but Larkin did not need her approval.

The chaos caused by the recent mishaps was beginning to take a toll on the good of all the cities. Halfheartedly commanded by the courts, security was low and the system infiltrated by none other than the rebels, who saw the weakness in Larkin’s control and seized the opportunity. Murder was their choice weapon against him – in less than a day subjects important to him had been assassinated and his allies were crumbling. A chunk of his court had disappeared. Larkin knew that he was being betrayed.

The meeting with Sashin was postponed. The ritualistic humbug he and Larkin had arranged could wait. The soon to be King had more important things to do. Like announcing his new authority to the nation, the cities he would incorporate to create his own utopia. Everything would be as he said. He would no longer have to tiptoe around ancient laws and quarrel with governors who were his so-called equals.

That was the first thing to go; the laws. The archives, a massive system of the laws and histories of each city were burnt. Larkin erased the history of every rule, every person to have held power before him. It was complete reform; Talos and his underlings rewrote the court systems, the order of rule, every last thing Larkin did not approve of. Though Larkin had not ordered the temples of the Moons to be destroyed, many priests fled into the dark world, aware of Larkin’s reputation for skepticism.

A number of Larkin’s favorite people were suspected of disloyalty to him; they were executed, quietly and discreetly. It was no time to be foolish and Aurora urged him to get rid of the girl he kept locked away in her room, the one who had assisted the sorceress in attempted murder, but Larkin waved this away with his gloved hand.

He remained troubled over the escape of the boy; he ordered a temporary stop to the burnings. They resumed after he announced himself as king.

Stelon was present. It was the second time she had been in the ballroom, this time the proceedings went as planned and there was no bloodshed. The massive room was packed and barely a whisper echoed off the walls as Larkin entered, standing in front of the throne with Aurora and Jannika behind him. Jannika was a tall man, like Larkin, thick with muscle and gray with age.

The message Larkin delivered was simple; the heirs would not take their places as governor. Instead, Larkin would be their sovereign, their leader and their King. He would appoint councils to each city in due time. He did not have to warn his subjects of the difficult times ahead. He did not have to speak of the rebels and of other motives he harbored. They knew.

And still chaos did somewhat reign; there was confusion and Larkin let Aurora trouble over most of these things; the future was too important for him to be troubled with minor dilemmas of the present. He did what he always did and waved them away, sighing softly and placing his hand over the wound in his chest, telling them he felt too faint to think.

The soldiers he had sent to find the boy were ordered to return to their previous means of finding him, though Larkin wished not for the destruction of the villages now. He thought the sacrifice of a child would be more convincing. This would cause an uproar, he knew, but a small one nonetheless. Not many cared for the well being of the peasants and woodsmen. But where ever you do find him, Larkin said casually, burn everything.

And that night, dismissing Aurora and company, Larkin went to Sashin with a bundle in his arms.

A thousand times.

He was weak.

So weak.

The wound would not close. It was not becoming tender, the flesh was not bruising. It remained red and fresh. He ran his fingers along the stitches, staring at himself in the mirror. His skin was drained of blood. He had had to sit himself down, banishing all from his bedroom. It was hard to focus on his reflection. His head was light and his vision swam. It was an hour before he felt well enough to stand.

He had stripped himself of his robes and corset, trading it for something lighter. He pulled a transparent silk robe over himself, tying it about his waist and left his room.

Larkin was tired of wondering, tired of waiting. He wanted answers and solutions. He had been visited by the Lune priests before and now he was going to visit them.

Hundreds and hundreds of years before, when the people actively worshipped the moons and relied on them for nearly everything, temples had been built into the castle. Seven temples. Though rejected and ignored, the priesthood still survived. When Larkin had come into power, he had forbidden the presence of charms and other superstitious nonsense. Naturally, his attitude had been adopted by most living within the castle.

There was no one else. The priests had, at least, whispered explanations in his ear as to why no doctors could explain what was happening to him. Why none of the healers could heal him with their hands. They laced these reasons with things Larkin liked to hear – that these people were all fools and did not deserve to live. But also, that if Larkin did not find a working treatment soon, that they would be honored to have him in their temple. That if he graced them with his presence, they could tell him more than any others could.

The temple was built entirely in black marble. The doors stretched thirty feet to the ceiling. Torches lined the hallway past that, burning with a redness that was unnatural even for fire. Larkin’s feet were bare. A velvet carpet, red, stretched through the center of the corridor, taking him down it. It opened into a room that was circular, a hundred feet in circumference. The walls stretched up into a tower, the top opened now to the sky. Wind came down from it in a whirl, blowing Larkin’s hair from his shoulders and face.

In the center of the room were seven pools of water, different sizes, all lined straight. In the three largest were reflections of the moons, not perfectly centered. The others were black. It was the only natural light in the temple. It was the only light in this particular room. The walls were adorned with nothing.

It was cold and quiet save for the hiss of air against the marble walls. Larkin followed the carpet-trail. It veered to the left, toward an arched entry way. Firelight flickered on the wall inside. This room was pillared, the ceiling only half as high, but high enough for there to be a breeze. It stretched emptily in a curve to the right, to another doorway. The carpet led him onward.

In the next chamber he was not alone. It was the same as the last, curving to the right, immense, but voices echoed here and it was not empty. On the floors were littered pillows and cushions. Larkin thought it was queer – priests sat amongst the pillows, some of them playing ancient card games, all of them dressed so that few of them showed their entire face. Eyes and skin like milk stared out from the black garments, yet now only one priest had seen him. The priest stood, leaving his cards face down on a pillow, and went into the center of the room, where the carpet stretched through. He went down on his knees and bowed his head. The others watched him, still and puzzled until they spied Larkin, then the rest did not hesitate to do the same and bow.

The first to bow was the first to rise, the others remained kneeling, eyes downcast. He approached Larkin and went down again it front of him. His eyes never left the floor and he spoke in a hoarse whisper, “your magnificence.”

“Yes,” Larkin said.

“Shall I take you to Sashin?” Sashin was the high priest. He was very much a recluse, yet he and his apprentice had ventured to Larkin’s bed chambers on more than one occasion, the first time before the moons rose on the night of the ball. They had not claimed to being able to heal the governor, yet assisted in other ways.

“Yes.”

The priest led him past the others. Larkin glanced down at them on his way. They were motionless and silent, never lifting their eyes. He expected the next room to be built in the same manner as the previous two - but was instead three different hallways. They took the right one, and at the very end was a set of doors. The priest opened the doors for him, and he stepped inside.

The room was large and circular. In the middle was a deep red rug. Sashin sat there on a pillow, an unclothed woman lying next to him, her chin in her hands. The rest of the rug was covered in pieces of parchment, and Sashin was arranging them. He did not look up, nor did the woman, and he said, his voice rough and angry, “I am busy.”

“I can see that,” Larkin said, “breaking your celibacy, priest?”

Sashin’s eyes lifted to see Larkin, and they went wide. Parchment fell from his fingers as he stood, pulling his robes closed and lifting a hood over his gray, bald head. He stepped over the woman, frozen in her place, and came to Larkin. As he went down on his knees, he grasped the corner of Larkin’s robe and pulled it to his mouth, whispering, “forgive me, sire, master, I was not expecting you.”

Larkin yanked his robe from the man’s fingers and curled his lip, “You suckle a whore and place your mouth on me, dare you, you filthy priest?”

The priest placed his hands and forehead on the floor. Larkin looked up to the woman and pointed at the doorway, “Get out.”

When she was gone, Larkin walked passed Sashin and to the papers on the floor. He stepped on them, stood in the middle of these delicate pieces, and turned to look at Sashin on the ground, who turned to watch him, fingers clenched into fists and terribly distressed as the parchment crumbled beneath Larkin. Larkin looked downward, tilted his head.

“Ancient prophecies,” he said. “I thought I ordered these burnt.”

Sashin’s tight face broke into a grin, his lips shaking, “You did, sire.”

“You disobeyed me. I should not have expected more from you.” Larkin twisted a piece of parchment between his toes. It disintegrated into hundreds of tiny pieces. “I am going to destroy your temple and kill your priests.”

“No, sire, please – we can do so much to help you! You must,” he was holding his neck, still standing on his knees, “you must give us a chance.”

“Help me?” Larkin laughed, “How? Spells, lunatic rituals?”

“There are things you must know. About yourself, about the sorceress.”

“She doesn’t matter anymore. I killed her.”

Sashin got to his feet and came to the edge of the rug and the papers. He extended his finger and pointed to Larkin’s chest, “I know why you do not heal. Sire, you cannot tell me you don’t believe the effects of the moons. You saw the sorceress, you saw what she could do. It is of the unexplained.”

“Then you tell me, priest. Enlighten me.”

Sashin circled the rug, then stepped gently over the papers to come up behind Larkin. He pressed his fingers against Larkin’s back. Blood leaked through the bandages to soak into the delicate silk. He raised himself on his tiptoes to whisper into Larkin’s ear. Larkin did not move, but said,

“Do not touch me.”

Sashin removed his fingers. “This wound,” he whispered, “is cursed with her magic. It will never heal as long as she is alive.”

“She is dead.” Larkin growled, “I killed her.”

“If you had a strong cleric, a natural-born, it could be healed to a degree.”

“She is dead,” he repeated, “Her heart exploded. The blood was ankle deep.”

“The sorceress lives.”

Larkin looked down to see Sashin’s fingers pulling the bandages from his chest.

“Do not touch me.”

The bandages fell away to reveal the stitching. Blood came forth, tiny trickles of redness down his pale skin. Sashin rubbed the substance between his fingers. He said, voice hushed, “She is in the prophecies you stand upon.”

Larkin kicked his foot. Papers crumbled.

Sashin flinched.

“I have been to lands no man has ever seen,” the priest said, lifting Larkin’s arm to slide the robe from him.

“As have I.” Larkin’s eyes were sweeping across the ancient papers, the glyphs and symbols.

“I have met beings that would walk on us and look past us as if we were dirt. Beings so powerful and wise and heartless that they sleep beneath the land of boredom for thousands of years. They emerge and live amongst us without our knowledge. They are ancients, the sons and daughters and vessels of the Gods. I was in the presence of a creature that could only have been birthed by Stryphus himself. I felt him, smelled his smell…”

Sashin’s nose touched Larkin’s bare shoulder. He breathed in and exhaled, “like smoke, burnt earth… fire.”

“Do not touch me.”

He folded Larkin’s robe, dropped it outside the circle of papers.

“You,” he whispered fiercely, “you are not a man. A man could not endure this.”

Sashin’s arms were around Larkin, fingers pressing against the wound.

“You are going to lose your hands, priest.”

“I can perform spells for you, master. I can cast curses. I can help you acquire the things you want.”

Larkin turned, placed his hands on Sashin’s shoulders and shoved. Sashin fell onto the papers, and they became little more than dust under him. Larkin fetched his robe, tore away the rest of the bandages, and put it on. The silk stuck to his wet chest and back.

“You and yours will be dead if I am failed. Here is what I want, priest – I want the boy and I want triumph over all who oppose me. Can you make that happen, priest? Can you?”

Sashin grinned up at him, “I can.”

“You’re a pathetic liar. No spell can do that.”

“Oh, sire, it can. With the blood of a virgin and a being so powerful as you, Stryphus would listen.”

“Tomorrow night, I will be here with a virgin,” Larkin went to the door, and turned to look at Sashin, “Did you like that whore?”

The priest stood, shaking pieces of parchment from his robe, “Yes, I did.”

“She was pretty. Do you have her often?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she now?”

Sashin became alarmed. “With… the others.”

“Ah.”

Larkin left.

Laugh and grind.

Before the screams interrupted, before the men in black came to them, Larkin was smiling at Stelon, stroking the back of her hand as he said, “Don’t cry, that was the past. You belong here now.”

And he watched as she wiped her tears away, entranced by the violet petals in her eyes, the redness around them and her cheeks from tears and shame.

When the screams reached their ears, Larkin stood with Stelon, eyes narrowing as it pulled him out of the trance. His vision blurred and his head was filled with a sudden pounding as he became dizzy. Yet he did not sit back down, or let this be obvious. The screams shot a feeling through him, one he never recalled feeling before the night of the ball, of dread and worry. But the men in black were there by his side in seconds, and others that not even he had known were present went to investigate.

“What’s happening?” Stelon asked, her hand tightening around Larkin’s. He put his arm around her shoulder, giving her arm a squeeze.

“They will find out,” he said, “No harm will come to you.”

All he wanted was peace for himself, some time to think, to gather his thoughts and unwind. But it was foolish to believe there would be no attempts to sabotage his new objectives. Thus his new, improved Guardians. If the screaming was from what he expected, it meant that someone in his circle was not loyal. It meant he had more weeding to do, and though his first feelings to this were displeasure, he would, later on, look forward to this and welcome the unloyal to test him, test to see how weak he really was.

He looked to his side, down at Stelon as she stared on through the trees, scared but not tense. Trust. And what did they think of this? What would they think of him removing his own status as Governor, and having a criminal on his arm as company? They would think he was losing his mind. He smiled. Let them, he thought, and let them see how wrong they are. Her trust has been so easy to gain. It was as if he had not even tried. But why was she here with him, why did she matter…

… she didn’t.

Not really. He ought to occupy his mind with others things, important things. He did not really believe that Tic would come for her, or that the boy even knew she was his captive, but he wanted to believe it. He could not reason with himself. He did not know why he did these things, or why he wanted to curl Stelon’s hair around his bare fingers, gloves removed. He couldn’t understand why her eyes were purple, and sometimes were not. Perhaps, he thought again, I am losing some of my mind.

It was not even minutes before one of the Guardians returned and whispered something into his ear. Nothing. It was nothing. The servants had a scare; a ghost, the ghost of who, of the sorceress? He wanted to laugh and grind his teeth and pinch the bridge of his nose, as if this would stop him from being angry at having to feel the way he did for nothing. Because of superstitious, simple minded peasants. Larkin did none of this, and his face remained placid, and though he wanted to sit back down to stop the pounding in his head, he did not and they escorted him and Stelon out of the garden.

Enforced collision.

“You will not put your hands on her again,” Larkin spoke, his voice cold, his eyes on Daniel, “and you will address her as Lady Stelon.”

He turned his gaze away from the boy, surveyed the clearing, and decided this was not private enough.

“Are you finished?” he asked, looking back to Stelon and giving her his genuinely fake smile. He stood, without waiting for an answer, and reached out his hand for hers, skin cold beneath the glove. She took it, with some hesitance, and he wrapped his fingers around hers. The servants stood with her, but Larkin lifted his free hand and waved for them not to follow. A man dressed in black had emerged from the trees and trailed them, however, as Larkin led Stelon down a path away from the clearing. Larkin did not say anything against him. The man remained out of earshot, but his eyes never left them.

“Don’t mind him,” Larkin said softly, “It is not you from whom he is protecting me.”

“Why do you need to be protected?”

The path led into another clearing. Only tiny rays of light managed to break through the vine thickened canopy above. The center of the clearing was sunken, where a pool of water lay, lined with stones, ferns and flowers. The surface of the water was covered with blooming lily pads, and on the far bank was a stone bench.

Stelon sounded as if she were avoiding the question the Shrike had asked, and Larkin smiled, shaking his head and pointing to the bench, “We can sit and you may talk.”

Larkin felt he needed to sit, the bit of food had ached going down and now it ached inside of him. The hardness of the bench was bothersome, and he crossed his legs as he sat. Stelon seated herself beside him, her eyes staring out over the pond, a redness in her pale cheeks. He took her hand into his lap and patted it gently, saying, “Now, Stelon, Lady Stelon, tell me what is wrong.”

Oh no, sir.

His smile never faded, and he placed his hand on her shoulder near her neck to lead her out of the room, sweeping her along with him and the many-peopled entourage. No one spoke as they walked, until Stelon asked, “Breakfast, outside? Isn’t it too cold for that?”

Larkin laughed, “Oh no, not outside.”

“But in the garden?”

“Yes, in the garden.”

The lower levels of the castle bustled with people. Not only were there servants, but men wearing rings on their fingers and women brightly jeweled. All were to be in a hurry to do something important. As Larkin came through, they parted and paused to lower their heads and eyes until he passed. They gave him wide girth, and glanced warily at his new personal guards.

Larkin watched Stelon from the corner of his eye. She was distracted by the color and vibrancy of the castle, of the people, but Larkin was more pleased to see her reaction to the gardens.

They left the active hallways and came into an entrance hall, the stone pillars carved to look like trees, the branches reaching up into the ceiling, which became glass halfway through. Outside the glass, trees towered over it, bursting with flowers and bright green leaves. Stelon stared up into it and Larkin gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

A pair of doors ahead was opened for them. A wide stone path, lined with spindly trees and flowers of all colors, led them into the gardens. The air was moist and warmer than inside the castle. The path split again and again, until Stelon was sure she could not find a way back on her own. The place was huge and all inside in the palace, not out. A glass dome could be seen through the trees. The canopy was not thick enough to conceal it. It was just right to let enough light through to the soft, green grass and flowers on the floor.

The clearing Larkin took them to was already filled with people. There was a tree, purple blossoms falling from it, with a small white table and two chairs set beneath it. There was food on the table, and servants standing at attention. Daniel was among them.

Larkin watched Daniel for a long time after he sat, but Daniel never once sat his eyes on neither him nor Stelon. Satisfied, he turned his eyes to the food on the table and waved his hand for Stelon to help herself. He watched.

The servants and guards, and a few who weren’t, became spectators. They sat themselves in the grass, a polite distance away from Larkin and Stelon, pretending as if they would be completely unaware of all happenings at the table. Larkin looked to see Daniel with his back to them.

Talk to me, don't talk to me.

Larkin stared at Daniel and considered him. “Go,” he said, “I want to have breakfast in the gardens.”

He left in a hurry.

The servant girls trailed after Larkin as he left the room. He picked up more in the foyer and more yet outside in the hall. The men in black walked to the sides of Larkin, and behind. One man went to and fro in front of them, peering past the corners before Larkin turned them. The Shrike watched as if it all was very unnecessary, but he was the one who had ordered this.

Stelon’s room was not far. The front man went in first, a second holding the door open for Larkin. He strode in, glancing around once before his eyes fell on the girl. They swept across the dress’ neckline, and then found her clean face. He smiled, motioning for her to come near the door.

“Stelon,” he said, “you look lovely. That’s a beautiful dress; white suits you. Would you like to join me in the gardens, for breakfast?”

Fair dealing.

In the morning, they played music for him. Sad and sweet melodies drifted through the rooms and Larkin sat on the edge of the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms resting on top of his head. Two servants, nurses for the doctor, unwound bandages from him. One of the women wiped the blood from his chest with a cloth and the other cleaned it from his back, Larkin’s hair wrapped around her hand and lifted to keep it out of the way. He stared on with a blank expression, waiting for them to finish, feigning patience.

“Your highness, it has not improved,” said the doctor. He bent over, examining the wound in Larkin’s chest. His fingers hovered above the stitches but he did not touch. His expert eyes could see everything, the wound so fresh it could have been made minutes ago. The blood still seeped, drawing a single red line down The Shrike’s chest. One of the women came to wipe it away but he grabbed her wrist, taking it from her and doing it himself. Larkin hummed in response to him, a very uninterested sound. “It should not be bleeding.”

“Wrap it again,” Larkin demanded, “I have things to do. My arms are falling asleep.”

The doctor opened his mouth to say something, to object, but decided against it. He could not explain why the wound did as it was. He straightened and walked to the other side of the bed, peering at the exit wound. He did not need a closer look to tell it was the same. He said, “Perhaps it would show improvement if you stayed in bed. Your recent activity could explain why it has not healed.”

“Wrap it.”

The nurses wrapped his chest in the bandages, tightly. They followed the doctor out the door, and after them came Larkin’s entourage, a tailor included. The man measured him and the servants dressed and pampered him but not without mishaps and bouts of rage from The Shrike. It was all mildly normal, except the blood Larkin coughed into a handkerchief. And when they brought him his clothes, he shook his head and sent for his official robes. He stood in front of the mirror and ripped a patch from the outfit, the sign of the Governor. It would have everyone guessing, wouldn’t it, he thought. They did not know what he was up to, not all of them. Word may have gotten around but they wouldn’t know. This would make them curious; keep their minds off of other things.

A little later in the morning, the violinists having been sent away and left of his entourage only three or four servants, there was a rapping at the door and one of them hurried to open it, but not after looking to The Shrike for permission. He nodded and the door was opened. Larkin’s eyelids fluttered in annoyance as the door groaned. Daniel hurried in, the servant closing the door behind him. It clicked and he started, everyone but The Shrike staring at him.

“Wine,” he demanded.

Not a task Daniel was unfamiliar with. Hopefully the only task he would be asked to perform while under The Shrike’s immediate command. There was a wine cabinet in Larkin’s bedroom, full of wine and other things besides wine. The man liked to drink and would be doing more of it, considering the recent mishaps and the pain of his wound. Daniel, as well as the other servants, feared also that his docility would fade and the combination of the drink would make it a Hell to be his servant. It was common for The Shrike to take his anger out on the servants, even out of the blue. No one would be safe.

And Daniel was the first victim. Larkin put out his foot as the boy walked past him to set a wine bottle on the table in front of the window. The Shrike was still seated on the bed, two maids sitting behind him, braiding his hair. He watched as Daniel stumbled, face unchanging until the boy recovered himself, saved from a mess of glass and wine. That’s not what Larkin wanted to see. He did not need an excuse to harm the servant, but creating one was part of the game. He scowled.

“Wine,” Larkin said again, impatient.

Into this house we're born.

In the chair Stelon had sat in only hours earlier was now a scribe, scribbling every word that was being spoken to him on a sheet of paper with a special quill that needed no ink bottle to accompany it. The gadget was a gift to him from the one for whom he was writing. It had made his cheeks red to receive it and he felt he had not shown how grateful he truly was, but he would do no wrong and make no mistake – not that he ever had. He was still being called on to take notes from his majesty, fingers intact.

“I will not be attending funerals. Have my regards sent.”

Being first to hear of the future exhilarated the scribe. To be here, in the presence of this man, serving a function for him filled with self-importance. He kept his eyes politely on the paper, having glanced only once at Larkin’s condition, one that would be shameful for any other man. This man, however, would let neither disability nor nakedness shame him. He displayed both, proud instead.

“An announcement will be made at each funeral: no heir or replacement of any kind will come into power. All will be taken care of directly from the Galesing castle. Explanations will be given in time. All that was said the night of the ball is still in order. With minor changes, of course.”

At the mention of the ball, the scribe looked up. Larkin sat against the velvety red pillows, hands clasped over his bandages. His eyes were tired and it was obvious that his state would not allow for anything absolute. The doctor had been exiting just as the scribe arrived. The man’s expression was that of continuous worry and little sleep. The scribe could not believe Larkin had been out of bed and walking, though he had seen it briefly. It impressed him enough that he recalled back outrageous rumors of Larkin’s physical feats and began to reconsider them.

“Aurora Complanse is my second in command. Her word is my word if I am not reachable. Make a request that she attend the funerals in my place, relaying these messages to the people.”

“Governor Aurora, sir?”

“No, that title has been removed from her. Mourning will commence for three days, during which I will have no official appointments, yet remind me of these things and write them as I say them to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The girl Stelon is in my care and not to be disturbed by anyone. There is a boy – these are minor things, you will see they are taken care of personally – a servant boy that has been pert with me, the one who brought in wine and entrée earlier. Have him assigned to this room until further notice. Also, have the Lune priests see me in the morning, after the doctors have come and gone. Have my tailor come early, as well. I would like to be fitted for attire that will conceal this.”

Again, the scribe looked up. Larkin’s fingers traced along the stark white bandages, his lips parted to show his teeth. His eyes were not pleased with what he was seeing, or with what he was feeling. Inhaling was quickly becoming a constant pain, and Larkin feared his condition might worsen.

“That is all,” he whispered.

That we will do.

An hour later, Larkin’s eyes opened to the sound of the door. He laid motionless, face hidden from sight, the sheet having bunched up in front of him while he slept. Footsteps approached the bed and stood at his back. Fingers touched his shoulder and someone whispered.

“Your Majesty?” Fear choked the voice.

“Did they find him?” Larkin asked.

The man jerked his hand away. “No,” he whispered, “But Jacks returned and…”

“If he was without the boy, kill him.”

“He’s already dead, sire.”

“How?” Larkin turned over, and stared up at the captain of the guards.

“He was raving like a madman, said the sorceress wasn’t dead. I almost believed him, he was torn to shreds but…”

“I don’t care. ” Pain clouded Larkin’s mind. He was bleeding again. The bandages felt thick and warm and blood made the sheets wet. He touched his fingers against it, still fresh and warm from his body.

“We had to kill him, put him out of his misery. Someone hurt him real bad.”

Tic must have found his friends, his rats; Larkin did not believe Tic was physically capable of harming a man, nor did he believe what power the boy possessed could either, but Jacks had believed Miraye was alive. That was impossible. He had seen her dead, inches away from him, and her dead body in Tic’s arms. Larkin had even felt the moment when her body released its soul, or whatever life force that witch could have. But he had dreamed she was alive.

That meant nothing, his mind whispered. Larkin nodded, “Did he say where he came from?”

“Not exactly. We know which direction he went. I will send a few of my better men to go and search.”

“Yes, but send many. Order them to burn the smaller villages if they do not surrender the boy or he does not step forward. In the others, burn a child.”

The captain smiled pleasantly, “That we will do, sir.”

“Make sure there are enough fatalities to be persuasive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wine and lilacs.

Larkin shifted underneath the seat, touched his fingers to the bandages wrapped around him. He began to dislike them very much. In the past, his wounds had always healed with unnatural speed. Even wounds such as these had showed signs of healing within hours, and when completely healed they left no scar. But this wound, he could feel the hole going straight through him. When they changed his bandages, there was no change in the flesh. The doctors were perplexed and had been visibly worried earlier. The wound bled, he fainted, and the wound stopped bleeding. Now it was bleeding again, but slowly, leaking through the bandages.

The door opened and the servant boy returned. Larkin eyed him from across the room. The boy was smiling, but when he looked up to find Larkin watching him, the smile disappeared from his face. Larkin curled his lip and turned over slowly, reaching over the table to pluck a piece of fruit from a vine. He leaned back against his pillow, and put it inside his mouth. Chewing, he then lifted his glass, signaling for more wine.

Larkin’s stare made the boy nervous but his smile had sparked the man’s curiosity. Smiling, what could anyone be smiling for? Especially his servant boy who had just escorted his new companion to her room. Why would he smile? But he had stopped the smile, satisfied briefly. The boy came to him in haste, reaching out to take the glass from Larkin.

Larkin pulled the glass out of his reach. Alarm showed in the boy’s face, and he looked at Larkin, and then quickly lowered his eyes. He took a step closer, arm still extended out for the glass, but Larkin pulled it again closer to himself. The servant’s Adam’s apple worked as he tried to swallow. His hand was shaking now but he had set his jaw as if he could hide his fear. He leaned, stretched his arm out and this time, the glass was not moved and he wrapped his fingers around the base. Yet, Larkin did not release it to him.

“Was that an insolent smile on your face?” he whispered, staring up at the boy, who leaned, stretched out over him to keep a grip on the wine glass.

Daniel shook his head desperately, “No, Your Highness.”

Larkin’s free hand came up from its rest on the bandages. There was blood on his palm, not much but enough for Daniel to feel it smear against his chin when Larkin took it in his fingers to turn his face. He lifted his eyes to look at The Shrike. The expression he saw there made his stomach twist with fear and then Larkin smiled and that was worse. That was bad, a not-so-good thing and he swallowed again, rapidly blinking his eyes.

“What were you smiling for?” Larkin demanded. His voice was deep, rumbling in a low tone, not the kind of voice anyone would expect from a mouth like his.

“N-nothing,” Daniel stammered.

“Oh, it was something.” The fingers on Daniel’s chin slid down to his throat and Larkin’s eyes left his face. They held his neck loosely, long fingers that nearly wrapped all the way around, but then he let go and his hand was in the boy’s hair, touching it. Larkin squinted his eyes, studying the boy closely. Something close to dissatisfaction crossed his features and finally, Daniel’s eyes squeezed tightly closed and his shakes uncontrollable, he let go of both the boy’s hair and the wine glass.

When Daniel spilled the wine trying to pour it, Larkin screamed and pushed over the table. The plates and glass and bottle shattered on the ground and the boy fled the room. Larkin moaned and turned over in his bed, facing away from the mess. He closed his eyes and his hands became fists. He envisioned hair that was softer than Daniel’s, skin darker than Daniel’s, a neck more slender, and a pair of eyes the color of lilacs.

O Fortuna.

“I’ll have someone find you a decent room and tend to you.” While Stelon wiped her eyes, Larkin watched. They faded from that lovely violet to a brown flecked with yellow. At the same time, Stelon’s shoulders relaxed and she was visibly relieved. Seconds later, she was absolutely glowing from happiness, or so Larkin could see. He finished his second glass of wine, saying nothing for a few moments.

An annoyed look crossed his face, and his eyes darted about the room. He repeated himself, agitation clear in his voice, “I said,” he emphasized, “I will have someone find you a room and tend to you.”

Something across the room clattered loudly as it hit the floor, and the same servant came quickly to Larkin’s side. “Excuse me, my lady,” he said breathlessly, casting frightened glances to Larkin, “if you come with me, I’ll have you taken care of for His Majesty.”

Don't speak of doubt.

“That is fine.”

Larkin could see she was not lying. She hadn’t lied to him yet this night, and having already seen her lie, he knew what she would do if she tried. He did suspect that there was something else; something beyond this that was important enough to make her worry, but it didn’t matter to him. He knew of the Sadrians, a winged people who kept clear of the kingdom, his kingdom now, and were rarely ever encountered. This did not change his dislike for them. Perhaps this was what worried her, but how could she know?

“Where do you live now?” He watched her easily now, his decision to keep her already made.

“I don’t have a home,” she said softly, looking away, as if ashamed.

“Your invitation to stay here still remains. It would please me if you did accept.”

Forigve me of my sins.

Larkin did not disagree with Stelon, and he was deeply satisfied with how Miraye had described him. If only Stelon knew how wrong she was. He smiled at her, wishing it would not pain him to laugh. Stelon would be easy to manipulate. He already had her in a tangle of deceit. Whatever she could tell him of Miraye, she would give up easily. But there was his dilemma; Miraye was dead and the only person he wanted now was Tic. He stared at Stelon, thinking, remembering. Tic had not been returned to him yet, and there was a good chance that he had already contacted the Sink, and the rebels were packed up and moved to new locations, ones he didn’t know about. Yes, the key word: wanted, not needed.

Wanted, not needed.

He didn’t need Stelon either. Maybe she was part of the Sink, like Tic, but that was doubtful. If she were one of the rebels, she would have known who he was. But she hadn’t, and she still had no idea. Larkin knew the men in the room were listening. They knew the truth, but none dare open their mouths. It did not matter to them either way. This girl did not matter to them. What mattered was that Larkin needed them, and this was good. Needed, but not wanted. Larkin did not want to look or feel weak, but it was necessary to keep himself alive, to protect himself. Stelon knew nothing of the Sink, not of him. What good could she be?

In that moment, he should have ordered her away, have her thrown out. But when he looked into her violet eyes, watched as they faded into a lighter shade, something stilled his hand from making the motion, giving the command. Instead, he decided to extend his invitation, the one he had offered her at the ball. She was a lovely girl, especially in white, and who better to keep him company than someone who knew nothing of his true nature? To whom he could tell any lie he wanted. Someone with a connection to Tic. Larkin doubted she would be any good as bait. She hadn’t known Tic, and the boy wouldn’t dare come to rescue her from him.

“You are forgiven. Where are you from, that you would not know who I am?” Larkin asked.

Still I can't escape

It happened like it did before; he bled, he slept, and then he was awake again, feeling so alive that he wanted to continue on with his day, but they had already cancelled everything for him. Aurora was appointed his second in command, taking over when he fell unconscious. He hadn’t expected to, but he was careful now, and remained in bed. The room was warm and he was naked but for the bandages, a red sheet pulled up over his legs and stomach. The servants brought him wine and fruit, a table pulled up alongside his bed where they sat the platters. He picked from it, drinking more than he ate. Candles were lit, keeping the light dim and red.

A chair sat beside the table and bed, high-backed and velvet cushioned. Stelon sat there, her hands clasped in her lap, staring down at them. For ten minutes, at least, she sat and waited for Larkin to say something to her. Every so often she’d glance up when she felt he wasn’t looking, try and open her mouth to say something, but did not. Larkin watched her squirm uncomfortably, swirling the wine and trying to figure out what it was that he needed to do with her. The servants had cleaned her and dressed her nicely, in a white dress that fit her wonderfully. The white distracted him and his hand kept going to the lace, thoughts trailing away.

They were not alone. Ten men stood at different places in the room, one directly behind Stelon’s chair. She had been, after all, an ally of Miraye’s, and Larkin already knew that the innocent could be deceiving. The men’s’ uniforms were different from what the other guards commonly wore. These had no indication of rank or decoration. The outfits were solid black, fitted loosely. They carried no staves, but on a strap around their waste was a shining, metal thing, and beneath their clothes, an assortment of other weapons. These men were the best, not one of them a fool. Their eyes watched everything at once, and they were ready. On guard for the Shrike.

“You were there to help her kill me,” he finally spoke. He watched her face closely, waiting for an indication that this was still her intent.

“No!” Stelon gasped, looking up with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know she was going to do that. She tricked me, she told me…”

Larkin narrowed his eyes and Stelon trailed off, closing her mouth and fighting back the tears. He watched her lift her chin, swallowing. She would not meet his eyes. Hers were glassy, violet. He hadn’t recalled them being that color. Maybe it was a trick of the light. She blinked rapidly to get rid of the tears, and Larkin emptied his glass of the wine, reaching over and setting it on the table. A servant scampered out of the darkness and filled the glass again.

“She told you I was a murderer.”

“Yes. She told me we were to rescue a boy. I didn’t know who you were.”

“Do you know who I am now?” Larkin took the wineglass and drank, looking away from Stelon’s eyes.

I can still feel you.

While the others left down one hall, Larkin and Stelon turned through another, his arm around her shoulders. The familiarity of the situation was not lost on him, but he forced it out of his mind, out of his movements. He did not want to think of Tic now. The boy was irrelevant to his plans. He no longer mattered, and neither really did this girl, save to satisfy his curiosity. She had been the ally of Miraye, and now he was again putting himself at risk, hugging her to his side. Her appearance, as Tic’s had been, could be deceiving him and hiding some unknown weapon of the mind, just waiting for the right time to be released. There had been no escorts with her; how had she known where to find him? Larkin’s head was not clear. It was painful and dizzying to stand. His room was on this floor, they would go there. Like Tic, she would receive undeserving treatment in return for her cooperation. Larkin would learn from his mistakes this time. He would be careful. If he could manage this wound and keep it hidden, hide this shameful weakness.

“Hush,” Larkin whispered gently, lifting a hand from Stelon’s shoulder to press his fingers against her lips. She had been trying to tell him something, urgently, but he hadn’t heard and was not interested in listening, nor to the sounds in the distance, echoing through the halls. Sounds that meant trouble, but it was all right. Men trailed behind Larkin, his best and most trusted, one dropping away to investigate the ruckus.

“You don’t understand,” she said, speaking through his fingers, “There’s a man, he…”

“Shh.” People still lingered outside of his room, in the halls. The area had gained new decorations: couches and waiting chairs, plants to make it seem more complete. Two priests sat side by side, each of their legs crossed at the knee and their hands clasped in their laps. They were identical in dress, height and shape but their facial features were not the same. Servants stood around, suddenly agitated. The right door to Larkin’s room was pushed open and Stelon went inside with Larkin. There were more people here, important people.

Larkin’s feather-light hand suddenly became weight on her shoulder, as if he were using her to stand, and when she looked up at him, his face had turned to a grimace and he released her, transferring himself to another. The man held Larkin easily, but there was fright on his face, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with The Shrike, there in his arms. The once quiet foyer was now a flurry of voices and people began to pour in from the hallways, and replacing them were the uniformed men, the guardians. They had their staves powered, glowing.

The man helped Larkin into the bedroom. Stelon felt herself being moved as well, another hand on her shoulder, one not so gentle as Larkin’s. She moved with the group and they all went inside, crowding around the bed as Larkin fell into it. A man rolled him over and Larkin covered his face with his arm. They pulled away his robe and untied his corset, pulling the strings out of his and sliding it from beneath him. The bandages underneath were blood soaked and those were being removed as well. His arm went up as they were doing all of this and he pulled someone down close to him, whispering an order.

The order was carried out and it sent Stelon away to an antechamber, where she was shut and locked.

Don't fear the reaper.

Lovely stood dumfounded for a moment, then screamed at the top of his lungs. The cell was empty! His torch shone on stone and there was no girl inside. Terror gripped him and he turned to the guards who would have escorted Stelon to the Shrike, should she have been where she was suppose to be. This would be the last straw for Larkin. Oh, Hisheme. He was going to kill them all, and Lovely too.

“Find her, you idiots! Sssearch the entire place!” he screamed at them. She couldn’t have gotten far. The men turned and hurried away, and Lovely flew after them. More concerned for Larkin than himself, Lovely shouted orders at the guards, his speech impediment unhindered in his panic. When the guards were completely dispersed, he scrambled to hide and lock himself in his room. This was not the day to be fucking up something so important. This was not the day to be ruining Larkin’s plans.

---

This was the day.

Larkin leaned back in his chair, the pain spreading from the front of his chest to his back, his hips. This made him no less content. The movement was casual; the others couldn’t see any trace of the pain on his face. His expression was pleasantly blank. He sat at the head of the table, his back to the windows in the room. The light of the moons shown around him, almost blindingly to the others seated around the table. They wouldn’t have been able to his expression either way, only his silhouette against the light.

“I will be King. It is not a hard concept to grasp,” he said, staring into the eyes of the man that would have been heir to Governor Cora, had Larkin not decided to strip the heirs of their rights. “You are on your way to be nothing, should you question me in that manner once more.”

The man shifted in his seat, squinted to try and see Larkin’s face. It was only black. The rest in the room, half of them heirs and the other half Larkin’s new court. They were short a man; Larkin had him executed not an hour earlier for refusing to go along with his plans. Aside from fear of dying, everyone seemed completely confident in this radical change Larkin was proposing to them. They watched with curious eyes, listened to him eagerly. And why not? They would be in his favor. They would be second only to Larkin, and this was satisfactory.

“Forgive me, your highness,” he whispered, casting his eyes downward.

“This will be the last time.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Larkin turned his face, closing his eyes against the bright light. A servant stood to the side, near the door. Gesturing for the man to come near, Larkin murmured for him to close the curtains. When they were shut, the room was eerily dim and Larkin’s eyes were simmering coals. He had only just finished explaining that the heirs would become part of his court or, if they chose to, they could fight him and lose. Though they had all agreed to accompany him in his plan, Larkin was not entirely sure of their loyalty. He would weed out the unreliable and the untrustworthy in time. Until then, he would have an assembly of guardsmen to stay with him around the clock. To say he could take care of possible assassins on his own was foolish. He did not have eyes in the back of his head, though some might argue.

As Larkin stood, the others stood with him. The simplicity of Larkin’s plan was amazing; all there was to do now was show the people. The heirs, no longer, would return to their cities, the corpse of their dead Governor with them. There would be the funerals first. Then the there would be the mourning. And then, Larkin did not want to wait, he would emerge as the King of all men, human men. That was his trick - the humans would be his people. The others, the elves and the fey and the deformed, would not. When he was sure that he had the trust and faith (and fear) of his people, the cleansing would begin. He would wash his cities of the impure.

When the door slammed, all but Larkin were startled. Larkin only lifted his eyes to stare across the room, past the men and at the worn girl, her back slumped against the door. His smile was forced, yet convincing. The pain in his body was increasing. He wanted to sit back down. But he could take something for his pain now; he didn’t need to be clear of his mind for the rest of the day. He rounded the table, his hand outstretched to Stelon. It was not noon. This was not his office. Someone had not listened clearly to his orders. But this was all right. It was fine. He would think about them later. Stelon did not need to be frightened with his anger.

“Stelon,” he said softly, close enough to place his hand gently on her shoulder, “I was not expecting you this early. Come, I’m sure you’ve had a rough night. Let me apologize and we’ll have you fixed up.”