The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [127]
“I have no doubt that poison was meant for me,” the king said, descending the dais. “An assault on my person I do not fear, but an assault on my son is something that will not go unpunished.”
Aryn considered this. Perhaps Boreas was right; perhaps the poisoned cup had been meant for him. Killing the king would have far more effect than murdering his son. “What do you mean to do, Your Majesty?”
“There is treachery in this castle, but I will root it out and destroy it, of that you can be certain, my lady.”
His gaze moved to the corner of the great hall, toward a hulking object draped with a white cloth. Aryn pressed her hand to her heart and shuddered.
It began that morning. The prince was escorted to his quarters, where Lirith tended to him with Sareth's help. Meanwhile, Aryn stood in the great hall with King Boreas. On the king's orders, the massive object that had stood in the corner of the great hall was dragged out to the center—a feat which took a dozen men straining together. Then the cover was pulled aside, revealing the artifact of Malachor.
The artifact was a thick ring of black stone, as wide across as the span of a man's arms. It was suspended on a wooden base in such a clever fashion that, despite its weight, it could be turned with only moderate effort so that the circle of stone stood upright, like the frame of a window with no glass.
Aryn had not gazed upon the artifact in over a year—not since the Midwinter's Eve feast when, at Grace's urging, Aryn had helped to align the artifact, and it had ripped the iron heart out of Lord Logren's chest. For that was the artifact's power, fashioned as it was of a great piece of lodestone which fell from the sky eons ago.
By order of the king, all of the folk in the castle—from lowest servant to highest noble—were rounded up and made to march before the artifact. Guards stood beside it, ready to force anyone who refused—though they could neither wear armor nor hold swords because of the power of the artifact.
As the hours passed, and slanting beams of sunlight crept across the hall, Aryn grew tired from standing beside Boreas. However, the king did not call for chairs, but rather stood stiffly, watching in silence, as his subjects passed by. The only excitement came from those who had not followed instructions and had failed to remove all of the metallic items from their person. More than once the guards were forced to grip the hand of a wailing earl and pull it from the stone because he had forgotten to take off his rings.
By afternoon, Aryn's mind had grown so dull that she didn't see how the commotion started. She blinked as a shout rang out, followed by the barked orders of the guardsmen. A peasant man tried to bolt from the great hall, but the guards caught him and dragged him toward the artifact. He looked like any other serf—small, with a pockmarked face, dressed in drab clothes. However, he fought violently, nearly besting the strength of three large men.
“Let me go!” he shrieked, spittle flying from his mouth. “Let me go, or my master will destroy you all!”
King Boreas took a step forward, his expression curious, dangerous. “And am I not your master, knave?”
The peasant man went still. He stared at the king, and his lips pulled back from rotten teeth. “You will be a slave to him, a thing for him to use and break as he wishes.”
Aryn shuddered at the venom in the man's voice, but Boreas's face might have been carved of marble. He gestured to the guards, but before they could move, the peasant man twisted out of their grasp. He spun and broke away from them—
—stumbling straight toward the artifact.
“Master!” he gasped.
His body gave a single, violent jerk. In a spray of blood and bone, a dark lump burst out of his chest and flew to the center of the stone circle. The onlookers stared. The only sound was the thud of the man's body as it fell to the floor.
The king returned to his place. “Finish the procession,” he said to the guards.