CHAPTER 16
The throne room of castle Allaze was as dark and forbidding as its prisons. The sun had set hours ago, but the lamps were still not lit. No one had let the servants in to light them. At the base of the dais stairs, below the empty throne, the masters of Mellinor stood in a loose circle around a balding man whose dust-streaked armor matched his tear-stained face.
“Friends,” Master Oban said, his strong voice wavering, “as many times as you have me tell it, the story won’t change. I saw with my own two eyes the Spiritualist’s lightning strike our king. I watched him fall!”
“I thought the lightning was pointed at the thief?” an official in the back called out, sparking a new torrent of comments.
“Impossible!”
“Master Oban, are you sure you saw—”
“The real issue here—”
“—waited far too long—”
“—always said it was a trap—”
“—greatest tragedy of our times, that’s what they’ll say, and on our watch—”
“Enough,” said the old Master of the Courts. “Leave Master Oban be.”
The masters’ chatter stopped immediately, and the dark room fell silent as the elderly master motioned for Oban to step aside. The Master of Security made way immediately, and the Master of the Courts took his place at the center of the circle. “We can’t deny it any longer,” the Master of the Courts said. “We have to accept that the Spiritualist used us. Perhaps it is as Lord Renaud theorized and she was in league with the thief from the very beginning, or perhaps not. Whatever the circumstances, we are to blame.”
“It was awful convenient, her showing up not an hour after the king’s disappearance,” said a young, minor official, elbowing his way forward. “I for one always believed she was up to something. Why would a wizard come to Mellinor, except to cause trouble?” He glared at the old men. “The only wizard we can trust is Lord Renaud. Even banished, he tried his best to save his brother!”
“But where is the body?” another official shouted back. “Where is our king?”
This raised a new round of shouting, and it was several minutes before the Master of the Courts regained control. “Silence,” he growled, staring down the younger members who were still miming punches at each other. He looked pointedly at Master Oban, who nodded, then at Master Litell, the thin Master of the Exchequer, who looked away. Satisfied, he spoke the words they’d all been waiting for. “In the four hundred years since her founding, Mellinor’s succession has never once been compromised. After hearing your opinions, divided as they may be, I think we can all agree on one point: If tradition must change, it will not be with us.”
The masters began to murmur again, but the Master of the Courts silenced them with a wave of his hand. “The discussion is over, send him in.”
A young official broke from the circle and ran to the side parlor. His knuckles had barely touched the wooden door before Renaud flung it open. He was already clothed from chin to toes in mourning black, and his pale face seemed to float through the darkened hall of its own accord. The circle opened up as he approached, until only the Master of the Courts stood between him and the empty throne.
The Master of the Courts watched Renaud warily. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of sending the prince away again, but in the end, the Master bowed his head.
“Prince Renaud,” he said, “it is with a heavy heart that we call you here, but in times of uncertainty the kingdom must not be even one day without its ruler. Therefore, it is the agreement of this emergency council that the crown should pass from father to son, brother to brother, as it has always been.”
Renaud bowed solemnly, but there was a twinkle of delight hidden in his blue eyes. When he stepped forward, however, the Master of the Courts held up his hand.
“Yet,” the master said, and Renaud’s eyes darkened, “in the absence of King Henrith’s body, you must understand our predicament. Should, by some miracle, King Henrith be found alive, all titles will revert immediately to him, as is his right.”
“I would expect nothing more,” Renaud said, laying his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder. “Henrith was my brother and my king as well, as dear to me as my own flesh, even in my exile. Still”—his eyes moved gravely across the circle of faces—“we must not let false hope take root. Miranda Lyonette is a powerful Spiritualist, and the Spirit Court is not an organization to leave such things to chance. I have long speculated that her initial goal was to kill King Henrith in the hopes of bringing me to the throne. She, no doubt, believed that a fellow wizard would be more sympathetic to the Spirit Court’s demands. Only when I rebuked her for the cruel murder of my kinsman did she realize her mistake. Now, I fear she may try to conjure up a phantom of my brother to trick you and turn us against each other, throwing Mellinor into confusion so that the Spirit Court’s agents can sneak in.”