The King(141)

Been there, done that, Wrath thought.
Saxton continued. “They have triggered that provision, and unfortunately, from a legal standpoint, it is valid—even though it’s being used in a way that was not contemplated by the original drafters of the laws.”
“How did we not see this coming?” someone said.
“It is my fault,” Saxton said roughly. “And accordingly, in front of you all, I tender my resignation and removal from the bar of solicitors. It is unforgivable that I missed this—”
“Fuck that,” Wrath said with exhaustion. “I do not accept your—”
“My own father is the one who did this. Just as bad, I should have researched this. I should have—”
“Enough,” Wrath snapped. “If you follow that argument, I should have known all along, because my sires are the ones who drafted that shit. Your resignation is not accepted, so shut the fuck up about all the quitting and sit the fuck down. I’m going to need you.”
Man, he had such great interpersonal skills.
Wrath cursed some more, and then muttered, “So if I hear this right, there is nothing I can do.”
“From a legal standpoint,” Saxton hedged, “that would be correct.”
In the long pause that followed, he surprised himself. After having been so miserable for not just the centuries before he’d decided to live up to his father’s legacy, but the actual nights on the job, you’d think he’d be relieved. All that paperwork weighing him down, the demands from the aristocracy, the antiquated everything—oh, and then there was the stuck-in-the-house, only-sparring-with-Payne, dagger-hand atrophy that went along with everything.
To the point where he felt like a Hummel figurine.
So yeah, he should be pumped to be free of the bullshit.
Instead, he felt nothing but despair.
It was losing his parents all over again.
In the end, Wrath had to see the hidden chamber himself. Cloaking his form in a humble robe so that none would know it was he, he proceeded through the castle with Ahgony, Tohrture, and Abalone—who had resumed his disguise as well.
Moving quickly through the stone corridors, they passed members of the household, doggen, courtiers, soldiers. Unburdened by all the bowing and the ritual greetings that would have been his due as King, they made excellent time, the finish of the castle growing coarser as they proceeded away from the court areas and down into the servants’ purview.
The smells were different, here. No fresh rushes and flowers, or hanging bundles of spices, or sweet-smelling females. In these extensive quarters, it was dark and dank, and the fires were not changed with rigid regularity, so there was a sooty undertone to every inhale. However, as they came upon the kitchen, the glorious perfume of roasting onions and baking bread elevated all that.
They did not enter the cooking arena properly. Instead, they took a narrow set of stone steps down farther into the underground. At the bottom, one of the Brothers took a lit torch from its perch and brought the flickering yellow illumination along.
Shadows followed them, scattering across the packed dirt floor like rats, tangling underfoot.
Wrath had never been down here. As the King, he was only ever in the prettified parts of the estate.
This was an appropriate place to do evil, he thought as Abalone came to a halt in front of a stretch of wall that appeared no different from any other.
“Here,” the male whispered. “But I know not how they entered.”
Ahgony and Tohrture began feeling around, utilizing the light to search.
“What of this?” Ahgony said. “There is a lip.”
The “wall” was indeed a lie, a flimsy fabrication colored to appear as if it were part of the stone-and-mortar construction. And inside …
“No, my lord,” Ahgony said before Wrath was even aware of stepping forward. “I shall go first.”
With the torch held aloft, the Brother penetrated the darkness, the flames revealing what appeared to be a cramped workspace: Off to one side, there was a rough table on graceless legs, on which sat glass jars capped with heavy metal lids; a mortar and pestle; a chopping block; many knives. And in the center of the squat room, a cauldron sat o’er a fire pit.
Wrath strode over to its cast-iron belly. “Bring unto me the light.”
Ahgony directed the illumination into the thing.
A vile stew, cold now, but clearly having been cooked, lay like the leftovers of a sewage flood.
Wrath dipped his finger in and brought up some of the brownish sludge. Sniffing it, he found that in spite of its consistency and the depth of its color, it had little fragrance.
“Do not taste, my lord,” Tohrture cut in. “If you require that, allow me.”