But now the high king’s storm banners merely dragged wind and drizzle down upon their own towers while the stone galleon of the citadel steadily succumbed to gravity and the sea.
Through the rain and gloom, Henry took in the ocean’s conquests. Young mangroves sprouted up in flooded courtyards and the amphitheatres of the low-lying carnival district had become stagnant lagoons. Beyond the parapet, huge waves crashed and roared like conquering demons as they relentlessly eroded the citadel’s walls.
However, not all the kingdom’s magic foundered. Where plumes of sea spray reached the very heights of the white walls they broke into flights of doves.
“Now there’s a trick I wouldn’t want to see done with rabbits,” Henry commented as he leaned over the alabaster stonework of the parapet. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought for just a moment he’d seen figures down on the ragged rocks.
He edged further out for a better view and his six sidhe guards bristled like alarmed watchdogs. Their spears gleamed bright as lightning flashed over the dark sea. Again the commander caught the hood of Henry’s red sweat jacket.
“Young prince, you must come away from the edge. It is not safe.”
The impulse to show him just how unsafe it was flashed through Henry’s skull, but he resisted. Jason wasn’t likely to elbow a man off the parapet. So not only would it be a damn obvious giveaway but also it would probably result in Henry playing pincushion to five very long ivory spears. And that, in turn, would all too quickly end the entire charade.
“Sorry.” Henry met the commander’s stony gaze as if he were too guileless to recognize the disdain there. “I’ve just never seen anything so majestic,” Henry gushed.
Jason would have been furious at being played like such a chump, but there were advantages to being underestimated by men as well armed and experienced as these ones. And at this point Henry needed every advantage he could get.
The commander accepted his excuse, obviously expecting little of a youth raised by throwback humans too dim to master the simplest spells.
Thunder crashed through the sky.
“We must not keep your father waiting.” The commander nudged him onward. Henry went, shivering and working his frigid, stiff fingers against his shackles as inconspicuously as he could manage. He knew there wasn’t any point; he wasn’t going to get them off, but it wasn’t in his nature to quit. While he wore them he could not retreat into the shade lands; he was trapped here.
Despite Henry’s foot-dragging, they soon reached the broad stone staircase that led down to the wide courtyard of the Hall of the Throne. As they descended, Henry noted the large number of goblin mercenaries standing guard in the shadows of the ornamental flowering trees surrounding the hall.
Furtive figures peered from the tower windows surrounding the courtyard and below servants dressed in dull green liveries gawked at Henry as he drew near but averted their gazes when he looked back at them.
Then from some high place Henry heard a man sing out the first phrases of ‘the Song of the High King’s Return’.
“Blood of our true king,
Son blessed by the stone,
Even the storms will sing
Come claim your throne—”
Two wiry white goblins drew their scimitars and dashed across the courtyard into one of the many towers. Moments later, only the wind raised its voice to welcome Henry as he strode across the alabaster path to the golden doors of the Hall of the Throne. His guards trailed him with a wary tension in their movements.
Snow goblin mercenaries hauled the doors open and Henry had to shield his eyes with his shackled hands against the blaze of golden light that fell across him. The din of hundreds of voices burst over him only to be immediately silenced. Gathered on either side of the long gallery, nobles, courtiers, and ministers clothed in resplendent raiment stared at Henry.
“Son of Regent Cethur Greine, born of Princess Easnadh Naomh.” A goblin child, dressed as a page, announced Jason’s lineage and bowed before Henry. “Presenting Prince Lasair.”
Henry briefly wondered what Jason would have thought of being addressed as Prince Lasair. He probably would’ve been too disturbed by the thought that some man in a tower had just had his throat slit to even notice. Henry wasn’t particularly happy about that himself.
He glared across the sea of beautifully gowned and coifed sidhe. At the far end of the immense golden hall Cethur Greine brooded from atop the dark, decayed stones that had once been the shining gold throne of the high king. Without the Stone of Fal, the throne—like the citadel itself—was dying.
Goblin mercenaries flanked Greine and he returned Henry’s gaze with an expression that was like longing but more voracious. Phipps hadn’t lied. Greine strongly resembled Jason. Henry’s heart gave an unnerving kick as he stared into Greine’s dark eyes. Jason had obviously inherited his bronze skin, dark hair, and slim build from his father, but Henry had never seen Jason’s face light with a smile so imperious or cruel as Greine’s.
“At last.” Greine rose and held out his right hand. In his left he held an ivory knife. “Come to me, child.”
“Do not trust him, my prince,” the little goblin page whispered as Henry passed him. Then he bowed and backed away as Henry’s guards followed.
Henry crossed the Hall of the Throne with his head held high. On either side of him silk-robed courtiers and ministers sporting the jeweled rings of office averted their gaze. Not one of them protested; not one even whispered as much warning as the goblin page had. One woman covered her face with her hands and two men turned away, but all of them let “Jason” walk past to his death.
Henry hadn’t wanted to get angry—he hadn’t wanted to feel anything for fear he would betray himself—but as he glimpsed his reflection in the polished gold walls rage began to smolder inside him.
Because it was Jason who he saw striding past the assembled nobles of the Tuatha Dé Dannan. Slim, soaking wet, and barefoot, he looked too resolute to merit the iron shackles restraining his shivering arms. Too young to deserve the armed guards at his back or the goblins standing before him at the foot of Greine’s throne.
“Flesh of my flesh,” Greine addressed Henry, “your loyalty and life are mine to claim. For the sake of our kingdom I call upon you to submit—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Henry snapped. “You want to murder me, then come down and try, but don’t feed me bullshit about obedience and loyalty, Greine. You don’t even know what those words mean.”
Shocked gasps echoed through the hall and for just an instant Greine appeared too stunned by Henry’s outburst to respond. Far behind Henry someone stifled a nervous laugh.
Then Greine’s dismay turned to fury.
“Kill him!” Greine shouted.
With armed opponents both behind and ahead of him, Henry opted to go for Greine. If nothing else, he was going to ruin the regent’s white robes.
Henry took one of the goblins off guard, slamming his knee into the patch of soft flesh between its bone-hard legs. The goblin grunted and stumbled back, but others rushed forward.
He blocked a goblin’s blade with the chain of his shackles and then smashed the heavy iron manacles across the goblin’s skull. It dropped to the floor. Henry’s heart raced and sweat began to bead on his brow. He spat the name of pain into a third goblin’s red eyes and it fell, howling. The rest of the goblins retreated then.
On his black throne, Greine paled as Henry started for him.
“Kill him!” Greine roared.
Two goblins rushed him, one swinging a halberd and the other brandishing a scimitar. Henry lunged aside but still felt the halberd’s iron tip punch through his sweat jacket and graze his shoulder. He caught the shaft of the halberd and wrenched the goblin wielding it into the swinging blade of his comrade. The scimitar ripped through the goblin’s flank, spilling blood and bowels across the floor.