The King(149)

Whilst Tohrture smiled a bloodthirsty grin, the cleric’s face went e’er paler.
“My lord…” the male whispered. “Spare me as well—spare me and I will tell you all.”
Wrath stared into those pleading eyes, watching tears well and fall … and thought about his shellan, his father.
“Please, my lord, show me mercy—I beg of you—show me mercy!”
After a long moment, Wrath inclined his head once. “Proceed.”
In a shaky rush, names came forth, and Wrath recognized them all.
It was the entire composite of his advisers, starting with Ichan and ending before Abalone—who had already proved where his loyalties lay—
The inner vibration of violence began to ratchet up as soon as the final name was uttered and the cleric fell quiet—and the urge to kill would not be denied.
His hand was trembling as it fumbled for the hilt of his dagger, and he withdrew his weapon with herky-jerky motions, the angle wrong for removal, the blade getting caught in its sheath.
But he did manage to free it.
Letting the cleric fall back down to the earth, he clamped a hold on the male’s throat and began to squeeze.
“My lord…” The cleric started to struggle, clawing at Wrath’s wrist. “My lord, no! You vowed—”
Wrath lifted his arm high—
And realized he’d blocked a clear shot at the heart, the jugular, and the major organs with his hold.
“My loooooooooord—”
“This is for mine blood!”
He thrust all of his strength into the downward arc—and was meeting the horrified stare of the cleric as the razor point of the dagger pierced the male’s right eye and proceeded apace into the brain behind it, stopping only when the entirety of the blade was embedded within that skull.
The body beneath his own went into immediate spasms, arms and legs thrashing, the remaining eye rolling back so that only the white showed.
And then all went still except for some minor twitching of the facial muscles and the hands.
Wrath slumped, falling off the now-dead body.
As he regarded the sight of that dagger protruding from a male’s face, he was o’ercome with nausea and had to wrench around, brace his palms on the cool dirt, and vomit until his arms could no longer hold him up.
Rolling to the side, he laid his hot face on the inside of his muck-soaked arm.
He did not cry.
He wanted to.
As the realization that he had killed another being hit him, he desired to go back to the world he knew before this—where his father had died of natural causes, and his shellan had simply had a dizzy spell because of a pregnancy—and the worst thing he had to worry about in court was that others gossiped over his choice of mate.
This new version of reality was nothing he wanted to be a part of.
There was no light on this side. Just midnight black.
“I have never killed someone before,” he said in a small voice.
For all his fierceness, Tohrture’s tone was gentle. “I know, my lord. You did well.”
“I did not.”
“Is he not dead?”
Yes, indeed he was. “I meant what I said about his shellan and son. They shall be spared.”
“Of course.”
As the listing of names ran through his head, that urge to kill rekindled, even as his stomach was barely settling—and his efforts were a mockery compared to what the Brotherhood could do.
And indeed, he would not be alive the now if Tohrture had not stepped in.
Wrath pushed himself off the dirt, his head hanging low. How was he going to—
A large palm presented itself before him. “My lord, allow me to help you.”
Wrath looked up into those bright, clear eyes—and thought that they were like the moon, shedding light upon the darkness, showing a path out of the wild.
“We shall train you,” Tohrture said. “We shall teach you what you need to know such that you may ahvenge your bloodline. I shall remove that body and stage it as if an accident befell him—that will give us the time we need. And from now on, food shall be prepared in your receiving quarters by our own personal doggen, not anyone affiliated with the court—and any and all victuals shall be brought in from the fields and sky by a Brother’s own hands. We shall each eat and drink of it in your presence before you do, and sleep outside your rooms. This is our solemn vow.”
For a moment, all Wrath could do was stare at that palm, outstretched unto him like a benediction from the Scribe Virgin Herself.
He opened his mouth to offer thanks, but there was naught that came out.
By way of reply, he clasped that which was before him … and felt himself lifted up to stand squarely upon his own two feet.

FORTY-THREE
Fresh air was good for the mind and the soul.
As Layla strode out into the garden, she was careful across the ice-covered terrace, splaying her arms out, going slowly: She didn’t want to run the risk of falling.