The throne room was as big and impressive as Wolfryn remembered. It was a large hall supported by thick marble pillars. The roof consisted of domed sections that were propped up by the columns. The ceiling was painted with scenes that depicted battles from long ago.

  Wolfryn recognized the old battles his father used to tell him about. The battles with the Elves that their ancestors fought to carve out the kingdom of Camulan from them. Others depicted more recent battles, such as the ones his great-grandfather fought against the combined forces of the Elves and the Fenns.

  Still others showed battles lost in time. Battles where they fought shoulder to shoulder with the Shielders against an unknown enemy. Battles with strange monsters, including dragons, centaurs, and strange, floating eyeballs. Those always made Wolfryn shudder. It was said one look from the gaze of the eyeball, known as an oculus, would drive a man insane.

  The Bear Throne stood alone in the center of the dais. Normally there was a secondary throne, colloquially called the Cub Throne, where the queen sat. Since his mother was no longer queen and Alfyn was unmarried, there was no need for the Cub Throne, particularly during Alfyn’s coronation.

  The room was packed. It was filled end to end with all the nobility from across Camulan, including some of their household staff, retainers, and knights, all decked out in their finest dress. They were all seated according to their status, so Lord-General Harmin, Jor Wiret, the new King’s Mage, and the rest of the king’s privy council sat the closest, second only to the royal family, which included Wolfryn, Davinya, and Filliya, who, thankfully was getting stronger every day.

  There were three empty seats in the Royal Row. One for each of his brothers, and the one closest to the aisle would have been reserved for their mother. All gone, now. Thankfully, Aeolwyn and his mother were simply on their way to Fort Camulan, but his twin, Ulfnar was missing. He missed them all terribly.

  He knew in his heart that Ulfnar was still alive. They shared a special bond, and he was certain that he would have felt it if something terrible had happened to him. He wasn’t sure how that would have presented itself, but he expected that if Ulfnar had been killed, his brother would have come to him in a dream or a vision to tell him.

  But that never happened. Ulfnar was alive, somewhere. Wolfryn just wished he knew where. If he was in trouble, Ulfnar would move mountains to rescue him. Without knowing where, though, he just felt impotent. What use was all his strength and battle skill if he couldn’t save his own brother?

  A door somewhere above them opened, and the royal trumpeters filed in. They took their places along the balcony, standing proudly at attention, holding the flags that adorned their long trumpets so that they wouldn’t unfurl.

  Then, the massive double doors to the throne room opened behind them. Though everyone turned to look, no one entered. The crowd looked back and forth at each other, confused as to what was going on.

  Then the bell sounded. It was the same bell that had been sounded during his father’s funeral. Probably the same bell sounder. He rang the bell five times. It echoed throughout the hall, filling the room with a solemn sense of loneliness.

  Then the singing started. The monks who always seemed to accompany the bell sounder began their chanting again. This time, it wasn’t the mournful dirges for the dead. Instead, it was the hopeful song of the dawning of a new age. The age of Alfyn, King of Camulan.

  The bell sounder and monks slowly entered. Behind them Archstar Boress made a grand entrance in his thick and elaborately embroidered robes and hat. He carried with him the Dragonshield and Spear, the symbols of the office of king.

  Behind him, two more monks carried the crown reverently on a thick velvet pillow. It had been polished and gleamed like the sun. A few of the assembled nobles gasped when they saw it. To Wolfryn, who’d seen it regularly, it just looked like his dad’s hat had been freshly washed.

  They slowly made their way to the front of the room and mounted the dais. The monks placed the crown on a specially designed stand that was to the left of the Bear Throne. They bowed to the crown once it was placed and left to take their positions along the back of the dais along with the rest of the monks.

  Archstar Boress then placed the Dragonshield and Spear in little holders that were beside the crown stand. Then he said a quiet prayer and bowed to them as well. He stepped back to the side of the dais by the door where the king would normally have entered.

  They waited as the monks chanted their song. They sang it softly, though their voices reverberated through the hall. It was difficult to understand the words, but to Wolfryn, it sounded like they were just singing, “Be wise, be merciful, be just,” over and over again.

  When the song ended, Lord Smyton took his position at the foot of the dais. He held the large, heavy staff that was the symbol of his office of Lord Chamberlain. He banged it three times on the floor and shouted, “The king!”

  The entire assemblage rose as one. Another group of monks, this time children entered. They began singing another song as they dropped baskets of flower petals along the path. Behind them, Alfyn finally made his appearance, to the loud cheers of the audience.

  He was dressed as audaciously as Wolfryn had ever seen.

  He wore a heavily embroidered red doublet buttoned up to his throat. A gold sash started at his right shoulder and made its way to his left, where it ended in a gold scabbard encrusted with jewels. Sheathed in the scabbard was the golden sword of their grandfather Bloodbringer. Wolfryn had never seen it outside its case before.

  Instead of pants, Alfyn wore colored hose that were covered over by another massive golden codpiece. This one showed the gaping mouth of a bear at its tip. If it weren’t at his crotch, it might have been something impressive to behold.

  Instead of boots, Alfyn wore shoes that had been bejeweled and threaded with gold. They made quiet little clicks as he walked down the aisle.

  Over his shoulders, he wore a massive red cloak trimmed in bear fur. The inside was lined with silk. Wolfryn wondered how much money the new king had spent on the ensemble. It might have been more than a dockworker made in a decade.

  But he was the king, and it was his coronation. Now was the time to look impressive.

  Alfyn and the children proceeded down the aisle until they reached the dais. The children split and took positions along its base, while he climbed the steps alone. He stood before the stand containing the crown and bowed at each of its items independently. Then he turned and sat down on the throne with a flourish.

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  Archstar Boress came around and stood before the king.

  “You have been washed and cleansed of sins. You have been adulated and worshipped as a ruler. You have paid homage to your father, your ancestors, and your people. You have shown respect to the symbols that represent your duty to them. Alfyn of House Camul, are you ready to take the next steps and willingly become their protector?”

  “I am!” Alfyn bellowed loudly.

  Archstar Boress bowed before him. “Very well. Then say the vows.” The archstar stepped back to stand beside the throne.

  Alfyn slowly regarded the assemblage, looking on them as regally as he could. He smiled and nodded at his family. Then he put one hand over his heart and held the other in the air.

  “I, Alfyn of House Camul do hereby swear on the gods of Laryn and the hope for my soul and rebirth, that I will protect you, the people with my very life. I will defend the Coast and Claws from all enemies. I will protect both fish and bear, commoner and noble alike.

  “I will be wise, merciful, and just. None shall be above my rule. Each will be treated in accordance with their station, but the law will be applied equally, whether they be of the lowest born or highest. I shall be just and fair before the law.”

  As Alfyn droned on his vows, Wolfryn worried about him being true to them. Sure, he was swearing them with the Laryn oath, but that oath wasn’t binding. Not in the way people believed it to be. It was only binding if you believed in an afterlife and believed that Laryn would actually consign a soul to eternal torment if the oath was broken.

  Would Alfyn be fair and just? He had never been so while they were growing up. He had always had an air of superiority around his brothers and sisters. And why wouldn’t he? He was the crown prince, and the rest of them were just backups. Since he believed nothing was going to happen to him, he could do with his siblings as he pleased. And if the rumors were true, he had been doing that.

  Wolfryn didn’t know if he believed that Alfyn was capable of poisoning their father or Filliya. He’d always noticed the attention Alfyn gave Davinya, but did he lie with her? Even the crown prince wouldn’t stoop to that, would he?

  “You may have faith in me as your rightful king,” Alfyn continued, “for I swear this before all the gods: The children Agyassa, Samahdin, Jakitradus, and Utashu. I swear it before their father, the creator of all—Laryn. And may they damn me and consign my soul to eternal torment if I should break this oath.”

  When his vows were finished, Archstar Boress turned to the stand and reverently picked up the Dragonshield and Spear. He turned back to Alfyn.

  “Take this Dragonshield so that you may defend your people,” the archstar said, handing the shield to Alfyn, who took it in his left hand, raising it high in the air so that all could see him holding it.

  “I take the Dragonshield so that I may defend my people,” he echoed.

  “Take this Spear so that you may smite your enemies.”

  Alfyn took the spear and held it aloft, crossing it in front of the Dragonshield.

  “I take this Spear so that I may smite my enemies.”

  Would he though? Would Alfyn protect them and smite their enemies? Or would he smite his enemies? The more time he spent with Alfyn, the less he trusted him. Especially after the argument they’d had during dinner. Alfyn had wanted to send his guards after their little brother and throw him into a cell. Aeolwyn. Their brother! If the king saw their little brother as an enemy and believed him to be disposable, what did that mean for Wolfryn?

  Was it possible that Alfyn had something to do with his disappearance? Some believed so. And if that was the case, then everyone in the royal family was in danger. If the rumors were to be believed, Alfyn had poisoned their father. He had poisoned Filliya. He was lying in sin with Davinya. He had manipulated events to get Aeolwyn exiled, and he was somehow responsible for Ulfnar’s disappearance.

  The one person missing from all those rumors? Wolfryn. And he didn’t include that their mother had clearly fled the palace for her own safety. Wolfryn was beginning to think that he needed to follow her advice and get out of the capital before Alfyn planned some sort of accident for him.

  “Crown Prince Alfyn,” Archstar Boress was saying. He had retrieved the crown and was now standing behind the Bear Throne, holding it above Alfyn’s head, slowly lowering it down.

  “I hereby name you Alfyn of House Camul, Defender of the Coast, Lord of the Claws, Conqueror of the Vanquished, Master of the Great Bog, King of Camulan!”

  The whole room erupted in cheers as the crown was placed on Alfyn’s head. The new king waved the Spear at them, acknowledging their loyalty. As he did so, he looked towards the royal family. There was something about his look that unsettled Wolfryn. His eyes wore a sinister look as though whatever had been holding him back from doing whatever his whims led him to do had stopped, and he was free to act.

  Wolfryn realized it was time. His own life was in danger, and it was time to flee the capital.

  ***

  Fraius was tired and sore. He had walked along a strange road for uncountable days. It led vaguely northeast, and, according to the locals he killed was called the Ableton Road. Fraius didn’t know what that meant, but he hoped that was where Aeolwyn was.

  His body always hurt now. Mostly in the chest where that damned prince had stabbed him, but also in his arm. The magical replacement was a poor substitute for his natural arm. It worked, but it wasn’t as quick or as strong, and there was pain in it constantly.

  And there was always the faint smell of death wherever he went. He suspected that it was him, as Dillon and Albus always kept their distance from him when they walked or camped. He was glad those two were in the ground. Neither was as friendly as they had been before the battle at Lannic Outpost.

  Had Aeolwyn killed him? It was hard to be believed that a young boy of his age could have done such a thing, but what other explanation was there? The visions of fire that he saw were to vivid to be anything but actual experience.

  The hot earth that burned, the sulfuric clouds, the unbreathable, choking air were unbearable. The pressure bearing down on him nearly crushed him into microscopic dust. It would have, had he stayed any longer.

  What else could that be, but the Fires of Eternal Torment promised to sinners by Laryn?

  Lord Longinus had saved him from that torment. Fraius should have been grateful, but there wasn’t any room in his soul for gratitude. Only hate. Hate for the one who had done this to him. Not His Radiance, but the other. Prince Aeolwyn. He was the one that had turned him from Laryndor’s most feared assassin to a one-armed stinking zombie.

  Aeolwyn must pay. And for that, he had to find him.

  He’d thought they had found Aeolwyn in that small village of Tophton. The taller man and the woman. But the taller man couldn’t have been the prince. His hair had been the wrong color, and his body was the wrong shape. He only resembled the boy in the face.

  Because of that, Fraius almost killed him anyway. But when he saw how well the man handled Albus and Dillon, he changed his mind. He realized that whoever this man and his woman were, they had inadvertently freed Fraius of his duties. He was no longer beholden to Albus or Dillion, and especially not to Lord Longinus.

  He was free to follow the pull in his chest. He had begun calling it the Urge. It was time for Aeolwyn to die, even if it meant his own death. Though he wasn’t sure if he even could die anymore, after being resurrected by Lord Longinus.

  How to kill him though? Would it be slow or fast? He believed that fast would be too easy, and the young prince wouldn’t understand the suffering he had put Fraius through. But he wasn’t sure how he would have the ability to give him the proper slow death he deserved. For that he would need a place, a torture chamber where he could safely restrain the boy.

  Perhaps there was another way. He would have to visit a bladesmith from the Assassin’s Guild. They would be able to prepare a weapon for him. One that would curse Aeolwyn to constant torment without killing him immediately. Then he wouldn’t have to capture the prince or find a place to hold him. Just a cut. A small cut that could have happened accidentally when he bumped into someone on a crowded street.

  Then, all Fraius would have to figure out was how to stay close to him so that he could watch the boy’s anguish as he slowly succumbed to the poison.

  But where would he find such a guild? They were, by necessity, difficult to find if you didn’t already know where one was. The only one whose location he knew for certain was on Gavinholm Isle. The assassins on the Isle were the best in the world. They would know the exact poison to use.