The Kingmakers(135)

The lords turned and moved out through the open doors. Soon the room was empty but for the two brothers with their father's throne between them.

Cesare said, “That went well. Don't you think, Greyfriar?”

“Yes,” Gareth muttered. Then Cesare's words struck him like a polearm. He slowly turned to look at his brother and saw a mask of hate and triumph.

“Don't pretend, please,” Cesare hissed. “Even you are past that. I didn't believe it at first, and I hate you more than anyone. Yet once I considered it, I realized it was true. It made sense given your insanity. I'm only glad our father didn't live to see this.”

“How long have you known?” Gareth asked, trying to sound casual, moving a bit closer to his brother.

“Very recently.”

Gareth heard a shuffling at the door, and he saw Flay and a mob of her beloved Pale. Her face was like steel and her glare impaled him. She had turned on him. He didn't know why, and it didn't matter. Not now.

Cesare asked, “Are you prepared to surrender?”

“Not likely.”

“I suspected as much.”

Along one wall of the throne room, high windows shattered; glass sprayed ahead of vampires who swarmed in. Flay raced for the throne dais with a red-coated stream of soldiers at her heels. Gareth leapt into the air, spinning over several figures that grasped for him. Claws ripped his long frock coat. He stepped on shoulders like stones in a stream, feeling the fresh wind on his face. A quick glance showed every window filled with Pale blocking escape routes.

He raced across the chamber, slamming into vampires, pushing off cracked chandeliers. The mob around him tried to respond, tried to correct for his speed, but they collided with one another. He caught a quick glimpse of a furious Flay as her own stumbling men blocked her.

The empty hallway loomed beyond the open door.

A wave of heat smashed Gareth. In a second, he wondered if Adele was there, but the scent was wrong. A figure appeared blocking the doorway. He was a human with white hair and a long beard. In his hands, he held large crystals clasped together. A silvery fire wafted from the stones and caused Gareth to falter with a cry of pain.

Then he was falling back. He saw the rotting ceiling and Flay's impassive face. Gareth tried to twist, raising one arm to cover his throat. His legs were clamped together, and he felt his wrists seized. Faces and arms and torsos crowded around him, grabbing him, locking him into position.

“Hold him!” came the shouts. “Careful! He's dangerous!”

Gareth struck out with his teeth, ripping the muscles from someone's arm. New arms replaced it. He was borne to the ground, barraged with fists and knees.

He saw the human kneeling over him. The man looped an object around Gareth's neck, and Gareth screamed as if a hole was burning through his chest. Faces blurred in the agony as the vampires holding him yelled in pain and drew away. Cesare smiled and gave orders. Flay sneered down at her former conspirator, but her bravado faded and she shook her head sadly, looking lost.



Gareth was chained in a dark cell under the palace. Perhaps the room was once used for storage or wine, but now it suited the great traitor. Rough stone walls with no windows and a heavy door defined his new world. Gareth heard or smelled little because of the searing pain lancing through his body from the crystal talisman hanging around his neck. The burning was too terrible for Gareth to appreciate the irony of his brother's choice of weapon to lash him.

A bolt shifted and the massive door swung in. The human geomancer peered in with intense curiosity before Flay shoved past him. The war chief stared at Gareth's writhing form chained by the wrists from heavy brackets in the ceiling. His wounds from the fight still ran red because he could not heal. Flay's expression was pure bitterness, more than rage.

“It hurts, doesn't it?” she said. “I hope you feel just a little of what I did when your human pet tried to kill me in Scotland.”

Gareth met her icy glare, trying to put the agony aside. His jaw opened and closed.

“Don't try to speak.” Flay sneered at him. “You won't be able to.”

The human geomancer said smugly, “As you can see, Gareth is in exquisite pain.”

“Don't speak his name!” the war chief roared, and backhanded the man into the wall.

“Flay,” Gareth whispered hoarsely.

Her flickering expression betrayed surprise at his stamina, and perhaps even concern at his condition.

“Please,” he gasped. “We can still succeed.”

“There is no we!” she shrieked. “There never was. I meant to betray you from the beginning.”

“No.” Gareth grimaced as he spoke. He panted with effort. “It isn't too late.”