Duty-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book II ]

4

That evening, Matei found himself following the paths through the palace he had walked as a child. Being in those shadowed halls put him in mind of the night, many years ago, when he had been cast out of the palace.

It had been the night his world splintered into pieces, the night he had discovered he should never have been born. It had been the last night of his boyhood.

Pausing on the threshold of the room where he had slept as a child, Matei closed his eyes for a moment, caught in a web of memory that still stirred in his heart the echoes of the fear and pain he had felt as a boy of thirteen...

It had been a peaceful evening. Young Prince Koreti was sprawled on his stomach in the corner of his untidy bedchamber, bathed in the light of a spirit globe. Open before him was the most recent book to have caught his interest: a history of warfare. More riveting than the text were the sumptuous illustrations of key battles from the First and the Second Great Wars, in both of which the Blessed Sovereigns had played key roles.

He turned the page and then propped his chin on his fist, studying an illustration of Katyander and Broycan, the two of them in active stances with intent expressions on their faces. Broycan wielded a staff, and Katyander needed no such weapon. Power rippled from the both of them, flinging the snarling, mutated creatures that were surging toward them in all directions. Koreti smiled. He hoped someday to be as fierce a warrior, and as great a ruler, as the Blessed Sovereigns had been.

The door creaked open. Startled, Koreti glanced up, thinking that his manservant might have come to check in on him. The blood drained from his face when he saw the man in the doorway; it was none other than the emperor, his father.

Koreti scrambled to his feet. "Your Grace—I know I should be abed. I was studying," he said.

Emperor Korvan, always a man of austere and fastidious tendencies, looked rumpled that night. His expression was one of wild-eyed suspicion, as if he had come expecting to find Koreti engaged in some wrongdoing. The emperor took one slow step into the room, glancing around with a restless, roving eye, as if he expected to see something there in the shadows. Then, his gaze landed again on Koreti.

Being in Korvan's presence was never comfortable. Koreti, normally a confident boy able to charm anyone he met, always felt small in his father's company. To be scrutinized by the emperor was to feel that one had done wrong or that one could never do right—or both. Koreti looked down at his creased sleep shirt, self-consciously smoothing it, and frowned at his naked feet. He was a mess, but how could the emperor have expected otherwise? He had never visited Koreti in his room before.

Looking back up and putting on a brave face, he said, "Father, it's late, what are you— ...Is something wrong, Your Grace?"

Korvan's hands were tight, quivering fists; his shoulders rose and fell with his breaths, and his gaze burned into Koreti. He strode toward Koreti, advancing across the chamber.

Afraid of the look in the emperor's eye, Koreti raised his hands and took a step back. He quailed as Korvan loomed above him. "Father—?"

Crack!

The pain came to Koreti seconds later. The patterned marble floor of his bedchamber blurred in his vision, and he realized he had fallen to the floor. Shaking, Koreti covered his burning cheek with his hand. He picked himself up, unsteady but aware that not standing in the presence of the sovereign was a grave breach of etiquette, even for a prince. He turned to look at his father, tasting blood, and saw Korvan wiping the hand with which he'd struck the blow on the front of his jacket, wearing an expression of disgust.