The Mournful King

XX. A Brief Respite

"So give him a tongue," Petr said as he leaned back in his seat, watching the little group. "Surely with elf-magic it can't be—"

"Have a care," Lieren said waspishly, her pale green eyes narrowed at the human lord. "I do not appreciate being lectured on the nature of magic by a ten-penny king in rags. While magic comes to me as naturally as breathing does to you, that does not make me a miracle worker. For one, the scar tissue in your charming brother's mouth would impede the use of any tongue I might be able to regenerate, if any. He would be no more talkative than he is now. And secondly, he would have to be willing. I'm not about to carve up his mouth without permission, nor should you be if you enjoy being more than a cinder."

The Leyan nobleman did not look pleased. "Is that a threat?"

"Think of it more as a friendly word of advice," the elf said. "I may not be able to manifest, but even while semi-conscious, our resident sorceress could cook you from inside out."

"Lieren," Andraste mumbled in barely audible protest. She was slumped against the Silent's side, her head resting on his shoulder, as Ekundayo undid the last of her armor, setting it down near her feet. The pieces were damaged, but surprisingly durable considering the amount of hurt the demon had put on her.

Both the elf and Petr either didn't hear or didn't care to. "Why wouldn't he want a tongue?"

The Silent felt Andraste slump into him a little bit more as Ekundayo went over at sat down by Dain, who was smoking his pipe. The mute man shook his head when Lieren and Petr looked over at him. He didn't want what would happen if he regained the ability to speak: people treating him like a lord again. Already the deference he was being given by his brother's men was gnawing at him. Yes, he wished he could talk to Andraste, but she seemed to understand him well enough without words.

"Your current conundrum is perfectly simple to resolve," Lieren said. She looked back over at the Silent. "Do you want to be a král again, Silent?"

He shook his head vehemently, but it didn't alter Petr's expression. There was mistrust there in his brother's face.

"I have words for him that are not for the rest of you," Petr said as he rose to his feet.

"I'll get Andraste to bed," Ekundayo said, standing up himself. He scooped up their sorceress in his powerful arms and headed towards the door, moving carefully so he didn't jostle her bruises against his body. Dain followed, clearly not eager to be in the middle of the coming storm.

Lieren rolled her eyes and then elf-stepped away to some location close enough that it just sounded like a loud crack rather than the thunderclap of her arrival in Tamaris.

It left the Silent alone with his brother, or at least the brother of the man he had once been. That felt like centuries ago. He stood up and walked over to the window, though he didn't turn his back on Petr. That was a good way to be stabbed.

"How dare you," Petr said in a low voice. "You come back here, to the people you abandoned, just in time to play hero after forgetting them for how many years now? Eight? Nine?"

The Silent turned to face his brother, noting the man's tense posture. Petr had squared his shoulders and clenched his hands into fists.

Petr's golden eyes were narrowed. "It's always been me who mops up, and you who takes the credit. And I let you for year after year after year. Not this time. I will not give this up, Benedikt. Not to you. I can unite what's left of us. The Králové are broken, but House Hustovi remains. You will never have a throne."

The Silent's croak of derision was, in his own mind, evidence enough that a throne was the last thing he wanted. He pointed to himself and then pointed out the south-facing window.