The King's Blood(23)

The old temple stood apart, its bronze doors permanently locked by Simeon’s grandfather, unopened in Dawson’s life-time. The private temple, with its pearl-white windows and sheets of green-enameled steel like the scales of a great lizard or a dragon. Above it all, the great tower rose, smooth-sided, the height of a hundred men, and within it the high-vaulted ceilings rose like the architecture of dreams. Dawson had been in the great tower only three times, and of those, twice had been in the company of the boy prince when they’d both been young and green. He still dreamed about those spaces on occasion. They had been made to awe those within them, and made well.

The king’s chambers themselves were surprisingly understated, given the setting. Elsewhere they might have seemed ostentatious or gaudy, but in the shadow of the great tower, a building encased in gold leaf and strung with roses would still have seemed modest. In fact, it was a wide building of stone and wood, glass lanterns set into the walls themselves so that the candles lit within would glow both inside and out. In the bright afternoon sun, the lanterns were dark and ominous.

A servant man in silks and a bronze chain waited for Dawson at the stone garden that led to Simeon’s withdrawing rooms. Dawson acknowledged the man’s bow with a nod and allowed himself to be led into the cool shadows within.

King Simeon sat beside a small fountain. He wore a shift of simple white cotton, and his hair was disordered as if from sleep. His gaze was on the falling water, silver and white where it sheeted down a bronze dragon almost lost to verdigris.

“A casual audience, is it, Your Majesty?” Dawson said, and his old friend turned. His smile was melancholy.

“Forgive me if I don’t rise,” Simeon said over the splashing water.

“You’re my king,” Dawson said. “However low you sit, it’s my duty to kneel deeper.”

“You always have loved form,” Simeon said. “Oh, stop that. Stand up, or at least come and sit by me.”

“Form is what gives the world its shape,” Dawson said, rising. “If you don’t hold to tradition, what is there? A thousand different people each with his own idea of justice, every man trying to force his ideas on the next? We’ve seen how that ends.”

“Anninfort,” Simeon said darkly. “You live in a frightening world, old friend, if the only thing between us and that is etiquette.”

“Order has always been precious and fragile. By the time the small things have washed away, the large ones are too powerful to stop. Every man in his place. Those meant to lead, lead. Those meant to follow, follow. Civilization doesn’t fall into anarchy. That’s how it should be. And it’s the world you live in too, Your Majesty.”

“So it is,” Simeon said. “So it is. And still I wish I could leave Aster a better one.”

“Change the nature of all history for one boy?”

“I would. If I could, by God I would do it. A world where not everything rests on his shoulders. Where his own people don’t plot to have him killed.” Simeon seemed to sink in on himself. His skin was greyer than Dawson remembered it, like a pale shirt gone too many times to the launderer’s yard. The king combed his fingers through his hair absently. His reflection in the fountain’s waves was only a smear of white. “I am sorry. You were right about Issandrian and Maas. I thought I could keep peace.”

“You did. Your only error was thinking you could do it without executing anyone.”

“And now…”

“Asterilhold,” Dawson said, and let the word hang in the air. It was what he’d been called here for. Simeon didn’t speak. The water clinked and muttered. Dawson felt a growing unease at the king’s continued silence. What had begun as a thoughtful pause stretched until it seemed almost reproach. Dawson looked up, prepared to defend himself or make apology.

Instead, he cried out in alarm. Simeon’s eyes were wide and blank and unseeing. His mouth was slack. The stink of piss cut through the air as rank yellow stained the king’s lap. It was like an image pulled from nightmare.

And then Simeon coughed, shook his head, looked down.

“Oh,” he said. He sounded exhausted. “Dawson? You’re here. How long was it this time?”

“A few breaths,” Dawson said. His voice was shaking. “What was it?”

Simeon stood, looking down at the urine stain on his shift, the piss running down his legs.

“A fit,” he said. “Just a small fit. I’m sorry you saw this. I thought I was done with them for today. Could you call for my man?”

Dawson trotted across the corridor and shouted for the servant. The man came with a fresh shift already in hand. There was no shock in his expression, no surprise. Dawson and the servant looked away as the king stripped off his soiled clothes and put on the fresh. When they were alone again, Dawson sat at the fountain’s edge. Everything was just the same as before, but the act of seeing it was different. He felt as if he were looking at Simeon for the first time, and what he saw—what had been there all along unnoticed and unremarked—shocked him. What had been the weight of a crown was suddenly something more sinister and profound. Simeon smiled at him knowingly.