Not all the soldiers were there. Seven had died in the fighting, while another four were too injured to attend. Rotter was one of the wounded, though Sergeant Caulder had assured Arcturus that the young soldier would be back on his feet in no time.
Strangely, none of the nobles were present. Only the commoners—the three sergeants, the soldiers and Arcturus, all sitting and waiting for their audience with the king. And Ulfr was there too, wringing his hands nervously, his short legs swinging above the floor.
So Arcturus waited, looking at the sumptuous marble floors, the velvet curtains that separated each room, and the grand set of double doors that led to the throne room.
“Do you think he’s going to give us a reward?” one of the soldiers asked.
“I’ll reward you with a boot up your arse if you’re thinking of asking for one,” Sergeant Caulder growled, though he spoke with a good-natured smile.
There was a creak, and the doors swung open, held by two, heavily armored guardsmen.
“Finally,” Arcturus said, getting to his feet. “Come on, Ulfr. You too.”
Arcturus put his arm around the dwarf’s shoulders, and to his surprise, the dwarf didn’t push him away. There was a smile on his face—one of triumph, and pride.
They walked together through the double doors, leading the way into the high-ceilinged throne room. A red carpet led up toward a raised dais, upon which two thrones sat. On either side, great pillars held up the ceilings, and a skylight allowed the morning sun in.
It was a sight to behold, but Arcturus took little time to enjoy their surroundings. Because it was not Harold sitting on the throne … but Alfric.
“Come on,” the old man called, beckoning them forward. “We haven’t got all day.”
Arcturus felt a rush of relief to see Harold on the smaller throne beside Alfric’s. What had he expected, that the old king would just disappear? Perhaps this was the official ceremony, where the crown was passed from one king to another.
As he drew closer, Arcturus saw nobles, lined up beside the throne, confirming his theory. Though to his dismay, he could see Ophelia Faversham there, as well as Provost Forsyth, prominently seated closest to Alfric.
The group stopped in front of the throne, and King Alfric leaned forward and examined them over steepled fingers.
“I was wrong about you,” Alfric finally said, his cold eyes flicking between Arcturus and Ulfr. “You common summoners are perhaps useful after all.”
He clicked his fingers.
“Obadiah, how goes your search?”
“Well enough, my lord,” Obadiah said, bowing low. “There are more like him, scattered across the land. Vocans will have new students soon.”
“Good,” Alfric said, then pointed at Arcturus. “You can stay there too, boy. And you can live. That is your reward for the loyalty you showed me today.”
Arcturus felt the blood draining from his face. This was not how he had imagined this meeting would go.
“Harold…,” Arcturus said.
Harold shook his head silently, as if to tell Arcturus to hold his tongue. But Arcturus would not.
“Who is king here? You or your son?” Arcturus demanded.
“Did I ask you to speak?” Alfric shouted. “Hold your tongue, before I have it cut out.”
Arcturus could not believe what he was hearing. Ophelia grinned as the two guards stepped in front of Arcturus, forcing him back.
“Since you must know,” Alfric continued icily, once he had settled back in his chair. “We have been planning this ‘transfer of power’ for some time now, is that not so, Obadiah?”
“Just so, my lord,” Obadiah said, bowing his head.
“Only we had to do it a little earlier than I had planned. No matter, there is gold enough left to finish the palace.”
With every word Alfric spoke, Arcturus felt his happiness shrivel and die.
And he remembered. Obadiah, in the hospital wing at Vocans. Telling him exactly that. How the people were angry at Alfric … and that Harold might have to take power. But at the time, Arcturus didn’t understand that it would be a ruse. That it was all a trick.
“Father, you promis—” Harold began, but Alfric lifted a hand, silencing him.
“We agreed you would be king.” Alfric sighed, speaking as if to a child. “Not that you would hold the king’s power. You are far too young for that.”
“I must learn to rule by ruling,” Harold argued. “Father, I am not a puppet.”
“And so you shall learn,” Alfric said, smiling broadly. “I have appointed a council for you. To advise you, and vote on all matters of state.”
King Alfric gestured at the nobles around him. “They will serve you well, and I shall be there to guide them of course. It has all been ratified in the law. The people will accept that, since you are so young, and they will trust you are in good hands.”
Harold’s face whitened, and Arcturus knew that there was no hope. What could he do?
“And what of the dwarves?” Ulfr demanded. “What concessions shall you make for their hand in saving your son?”
Alfric’s face darkened as Ulfr spoke.
“Who invited this ingrate?” he spat. “Get him out of here.”
“I did, Father,” Harold said, standing. “He is a friend, and we will treat him as such. I owe him my life, as do many in this room.”
“I risked my life for your son,” Ulfr said. “The rebels offered us equality if we joined them, and we turned it down to save you.”
“You did your duty as a loyal citizen of Hominum,” Alfric scoffed in reply, gesturing for the dwarf to be taken away. “You’ve admitted that your people were tempted. You should be thankful we let you live at all.”
The guards grabbed Ulfr by the shoulders, but the powerful dwarf resisted, holding steady as they tugged at him.
“You promised,” he hissed, pointing at Harold with a trembling finger. “You swore to me.”
“I will keep my promise,” Harold replied, his eyes wide. “As well as I can, I swear it.”
“Liar!” Ulfr yelled as the guards finally dragged him down the carpet. “You lying son of a—”
A punch from a guard knocked the dwarf unconscious, the gauntleted hand thudding with a sick sound.
“Give him a beating,” Alfric ordered lazily, leaning back in his chair. “So he learns his lesson.”
He looked on for a moment, then shouted, “And wait until you’re outside—I don’t want blood on our new carpets.”
Arcturus glared at Alfric, and the old king laughed at his expression.
“You should never trust a dwarf,” he said. “Forget him. He picked the right side and nothing more. But he must be punished for speaking so impertinently.”
He sighed distractedly and turned to Lady Faversham.
“Ophelia, how goes the interrogation of the steward?” he asked.
“We have the names,” Lady Faversham replied. “He gave that one’s name as well.”
She pointed at Arcturus.
“I vouch for him,” Harold said swiftly. “Crawley would say anything under torture.”
Lady Faversham narrowed her eyes, then shrugged and continued.
“Before nightfall, every rebel leader will be captured. By tomorrow night, we will have more names from them. It is a good thing Harold promised to imprison criminals—our prisons shall soon be overflowing with them and their families.”
She laughed, and it echoed hollowly in the open space around them.
“Of course, the soldiers have already surrendered, and General Barcroft committed suicide as soon as news of his failure reached him. But the others … we’ll find them, imprison them and throw away the key.”
“And the battle scene, has it been cleaned up?” Alfric asked.
“Not a speck of blood,” Ophelia said. “If all goes well, the people will not even know there was anything close to a rebellion. Only a simple protest that took a turn for the worse, followed by a peaceful transfer of power.”
“Good,” Alfric said, clapping his hands and standing. “Then that concludes today’s council meeting. Come on, I have prepared a feast to celebrate.”
“Father,” Harold interrupted, raising his voice. “Are you not forgetting something?”
Alfric paused, then clapped a hand to his head and looked at the soldiers, who had been watching the proceedings in horror.
“Of course. Thank you for your service, men. You’re good lads. Very good lads.”