The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [48]
From the look of terror on his face, Pymer might have let her flee the room just to stop the stream of curses, but Deemus was almost grinning at her recitation. Almost. A sliver of uncertainty stayed his hand.
“Well said, my Queen, but I’ll let my betters judge the weight of your threats.” He edged backward toward the door. His eyes never left her or the stone she held. Pymer scurried after, and together they bolted shut the door.
She was left alone with the dead king.
J’ross calculated that a swift messenger could carry the news of Garamond’s death to his nephew in just over an hour. It should take somewhat longer for Taramuk to make the return journey from his neighboring estate. If the Aegis was on his side, they would make short work of any token opposition to the joining of the two Houses.
Her fate would be settled by dusk.
Contemplation of her own death did not frighten J’ross. She had known the risks when she married old Garamond and then bore him a child that usurped Taramuk’s position as heir; she had gambled that Garamond would live until her son was old enough to defend his reign, and she had lost.
Death was the likely forfeit for her; however, if Rume had followed instructions, her child would survive. That was a victory of sorts.
The sun was still a finger’s width from the horizon when she heard the sound of marching feet outside the chamber. There was a hasty scrape of metal against wood, then the doors burst open, shouldered apart by a force of Aegis soldiers.
As I expected.
To give him credit, Taramuk led the assault. Garamond’s nephew was broad and carried his bulky armor with ease.
Elaborate designs of beaten gold added luster to the metal breastplate. He was a warrior who planned to be an emperor.
J’ross raised the stone up above her head.
“I have powers that are greater than those naked swords.”
Taramuk merely laughed. “It takes more than a few hours to learn to wield those powers, J’ross. However, I expected some move for power on your part, so I’ve come prepared.”
He clapped his hands and a soldier stepped forward. He was carrying a small squirming bundle. As the heavy cloth fell away, J’ross heard the crying of a child. Seconds later a naked boy tumbled out onto the flagstones.
“Did you really think you could hide him away?
His wet nurse offered him to me for a single gold coin.”
“Let him go!”
“Give the Ko N’ya to me,” Taramuk said, “or the child dies.”
J’ross shook her head ever so slightly.
“Kill the king’s son and rightful heir? Not even you would dare do that.”
“Do you take me for a fool, J’ross?
Garamond was nearly three hundred years old, too old by a century to sire a son.” He prodded the trembling child with a boot. “You’ve been seen speaking to your village lover; this is the spawn of a potter, not the king’s own flesh and blood.”
“You’re wrong. The child is blood of this House, Taramuk, which makes him kin to a butcher!”
Taramuk snapped two fingers.
“No!” she cried, but it was too late to forestall his order.
The guard’s cutting slash brought forth a gout of blood from the boy’s neck; waves of bright emerald green cascaded down his chest. The child’s limp body collapsed into a crumpled heap onto the faded carpet; J’ross dropped to her knees as if felled by the same blow.
“You will be next,” said Taramuk.
Even as he spoke, J’ross had let loose the stone. It tumbled from her slack hands, rolling across the floor toward his eager, grasping reach.
She remained silently in place, head bowed, as two guards stripped her of the gown she had been wearing, their rough hands tearing away the fabric until she was naked. Her jewelry was removed with equal force, raising welts and bruises about her neck and wrists; a trickle of blood marked where an ear-gem had been wrenched free of the lobe. Even her slippers were forfeit. They could not untangle the leather ties that bound her braided hair, so the braid itself was lopped off with the same knife that had slain the boy.