“Fitting,” mused Maxim, taking a long sip. “The peace was new enough to be fragile, then—though I suppose peace is always fragile—and I had only a thousand men to hold the entire coast. Though I had another title. Not one given by court, or my father, but by my soldiers.”
“The Steel Prince,” said Sol-in-Ar, and then, reading Maxim’s expression: “It surprises you, that the tales of your exploits reach beyond your own borders?” The Faroan’s fingers grazed the edge of the map. “The Steel Prince, who tore the heart from the rebel army. The Steel Prince, who survived the night of knives. The Steel Prince, who slayed the pirate queen.”
Maxim finished his drink and set the glass aside. “I suppose we never know the scale of our life’s stories. Which parts will survive, and which will die with us, but—”
He was cut off by a sudden tremor, not in his limbs, but in the room itself. The palace gave a violent shudder around them, the walls trembling, the stone figures on the map threatening to tip. Maxim and Sol-in-Ar both braced themselves as the tremor passed.
“Isra,” ordered Maxim, but the guard was already moving down the hall. He and Sol-in-Ar followed.
The wards were still weak in the aftermath of the attack, but it shouldn’t have mattered, because everyone beyond the palace doors was asleep.
Everyone—but Osaron.
Now the creature’s voice rumbled through the city, not the smooth, seductive whisper in Maxim’s mind, but an audible, thunderous thing.
“This palace is mine.”
“This city is mine.”
“These people are mine.”
Osaron knew about the spell, must have known too that it was coming from within the walls. If Tieren woke, the enchantment would shatter. The fallen would revive.
It was time, then.
Maxim forced himself toward the front of the palace, carrying the weight of his spell with every step, even as his heart called for Rhy. If only his son were there. If only Maxim could see him one last time.
As if summoned by the thought, the prince appeared in the doorway, and suddenly Maxim wished he hadn’t been so selfish. Grief and fear were painted across Rhy’s features, making him look young. He was young.
“What’s going on?” asked the prince.
“Rhy,” he said, the short word leaving him breathless. Maxim didn’t know how to do this. If he stopped moving, he would never start again.
“Where are you going?” demanded his son as Osaron’s voice shook the world.
“Face me, false king.”
Maxim tugged on the threads of his power and felt his spell pull tight, cinching like armor around him as steel hearts came to life within steel breasts.
“Father,” said Rhy.
“Surrender, and I will spare those within.”
The king summoned his steel men, felt them marching through the halls.
“Refuse, and I will tear this place apart.”
He kept walking.
“Stop!” demanded Rhy. “If you go out there, you will die.”
“There is no shame in death,” said the king.
“You are no god.”
“You can’t do this,” said Rhy, barring his path as they reached the front hall. “You’re walking right into his trap.”
Maxim stopped, the weight of the spell and his son’s stricken face threatening to drag him down. “Stand aside, Rhy,” he ordered gently.
His son shook his head furiously. “Please.” Tears were brimming on his dark lashes, threatening to spill. Maxim’s heart ached. The palace trembled. The steel guard was coming. They reached the front hall, a dozen suits of armor spelled into motion with blood and will and magic. Royal short swords hung at their waists, and through their helmets, the soft light of their spelled hearts burned like coal. They were ready. He was ready.
“Rhy Maresh,” said Maxim steadily, “I will ask you as your father, but if I must, I will command you as your king.”
“No,” said Rhy, grabbing him by the shoulders. “I won’t let you do this.”
The arrow in his chest drove deep.
“Sol-in-Ar,” Maxim said, and, “Isra.”
And they understood. The two came forward and seized Rhy’s arms, pulling him away. Rhy fought viciously against them, but at a nod from the king, Isra drove her gauntleted fist into the prince’s ribs and Rhy doubled, gasping, “No, no …”
“Sosora nastima,” said Sol-in-Ar. “Listen to your king.”
“Watch, my prince,” added Isra. “Watch with pride.”
“Open the doors,” ordered Maxim.
Tears spilled down Rhy’s face. “Father—”
The heavy wood parted. The doors swung back. At the base of the palace stairs stood the shadow, a demon masquerading as a king.
Osaron lifted his chin.
“Face me.”
“Let me go!” cried Rhy.
Maxim strode through the doors. He didn’t look back, not at the steel guard marching in his wake, not at his son’s face, the eyes so like Emira’s, now red with anguish.
“Please,” begged Rhy. “Please, let me go….”
They were the last words Maxim heard before the palace doors fell shut.
VIII
The first time Rhy saw his father’s map room, he was eight years old.
He hadn’t been allowed past the golden doors, had only glimpsed the stone figures arrayed across the sprawling table, the scenes moving with the same slow enchantment of the pictures on the city’s scrying boards.