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“I’m sorry,” Syannis whispered. He cradled his dead half-brother in his arms and howled, and then he saw another face, almost the spitting image of his brother when his brother had been ten years younger.
Berren, said a little voice beside him. This is all Berren's fault.
Berren.
Berren.
He sat by the body of his king, tears staining his cheeks. After a while, he got up. Strictly he had better things to do. Or at least, to be more precise, there were things he ought to be doing. There was the matter of the king being dead. People had to be told. The men who’d killed him needed to be confronted, for a start. There were rules about this sort of thing, and most of the rules were quite clear about how killing kings wasn’t the done thing. They weren’t supposed to have killed Aimes. Not in the plan at all. Sad thing was, that was likely the truth.
On the other hand, what was he going to do? Wander into the mercenary camp with Aimes slung over his shoulder and shout at them?
Oh no. Not this again. The stupid dream of something that had never happened.
Then there were the inhabitants of the city. Aimes’ people. Syannis’ people now. Someone had to go and surrender to the enemy on their behalf. Or something like that. Presumably the city hadn’t fallen completely yet anyway, but there was no guarantee that some small part of the palace guard hadn’t managed to retreat in an orderly manner. The mercenaries had clearly won, but perhaps there was some spirited resistance being put up in some corner of the city. Someone ought to be negotiating an end to that, before the mercenaries got annoyed and simply burned the whole place to the ground.
So much to do.
Damn thing wouldn't leave him alone.
He felt a sudden weight falling on his shoulders. While Aimes had been king, he’d felt he had to do almost everything. If Syannis didn’t do it, Aimes most likely wouldn’t even think of it, and so it would never get done, but somehow, it had been different then. Aimes wasn’t much of a king, and everyone knew that. If things drifted, people would exchange a few glances, shake their heads, and get on with whatever was required.
Oh for pity's sake. Aimes was a retard. Aimes was never going to be a king. No one in their right mind would let that happen.
Now if there was any head-shaking to be done, people would be thinking of him. The king was dead. For the next two or three days, everything was down to Syannis. People would expect it of him.
Look, if nothing else, he, Syannis, Aimes own half-brother wouldn't let it happen. Not ever. Not for anything. That was like putting a child on the Sunking's throne and expecting everything to turn out just fine.
Oh, wait. They did that already.
Yes, and look how that turned out.
He knelt by Aimes’ body, and held his head in his hands. Gods. Is this what I wanted?
Oh go away! With brute annoyance, he forced himself out of his dream and awake. Around him, men lay sprawled about, snoring. The air stank of spilt wine. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The dream always left him confused.
He shook it off. Damn thing had haunted him for weeks after his... Yes, well that was a good question too. After his what? After his unfortunate accident? His miraculous recovery? Yes, there really wasn't a particularly good way of explaining how he'd been stabbed by a sword and them woken up several hours later with barely a mark on his body.
Which made it just as well that he didn't have to. What did it mean, anyway, all those dreams of home? Dreams of a home that would never be.
He took a deep breath and sat up. The world outside was dark, close to dawn. The Watchman's Rest was quiet and still save for the snoring of drunken lords. He glanced to the corners of the room. There were still a few candles burning, but the room was large and filled with shadows. He caught a glimpse of Mardan, slouching by a window, keeping watch. On the other side, Velgient was huddled over a candle, reading the same tattered book of poems he'd been carrying with him for years. Same words, over and over and over.
Some sixth sense told Velgient he was being watched. He looked up, turned to see Syannis, gave a little nod and went back to his poetry.
Here we are, Syannis though to himself as he lay back down and tried to throw off the stupid dream. The best the city had to offer. The thief-takers. Guarding some drunken prince. Out on the streets, the thieves would be laughing.
He settled back, trying to make himself comfortable. The thieves, he knew, didn't care. Didn't even know. In the great drama that was a city like Deephaven, what difference did a few thief-takers make, here or there? Not much.
Still, ironic, he thought. To be guarding a prince when he'd been a prince himself, once long ago. Couldn't have been more difference between the prince he'd been and this of Imperial drunk from Varr. Same age they'd have been, but as far as Syannis could see that was the only thing they'd ever had in common.
I worked hard, he told himself. I wanted the best for everyone and I gave everything.
No. That wasn't really true, was it? I wanted the best for me. I gave everything, yes, but for the kingdom. My kingdom.
Ah well. At least I didn't waste what time I had getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself. You wait, Prince Sharda of Varr. It can all still fall to ruin for you as well.
Armand Rosamilia
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