Twelve
Paga'lat frowned as he watched his king lounge at ease in his chair at the table with his nobles. Although the man ate with relish, his drinking was subdued, preferring water to the fermented beverages available. And no woman graced his bed at all. This was a first, for Gilasham was known for his appetites. Had he chosen a woman but had yet to declare himself? That would, of course, make his, Paga'lat's role more difficult. It had been long since he officiated at a life binding.
For a moment, the world distorted before his eyes. Ruins stretched before him and sightless skulls littered the plain. Closing his eyes, he shook his head to dispel the visions. No. The city would stand. He would rule for a thousand years once Heng Tai and his horde threw down the fool who now ruled and his so easily manipulated friend.
Even now, Heng and his people moved against the city, although Gilasham did not yet know. The high priest had seen to it that none of the young men sent to the East and North had survived to bring word back from their borders. Enram, Gilasham's friend from his days as a roving warrior, was due to visit. Paga'lat had intercepted the message, but allowed it through. All he had to do was set the two of them at each other's throats and all would be well.
The priest did not know exactly how he would do this, yet. But the golden diadem that circled Gilasham's brow was nearly within his grasp. A shudder ran through the ancient as a future he did not see slammed through his brain. The city standing tall through thousands of years and himself tied to the place as though to a ships anchor stone. He felt frayed, worn to the bone and past. A snarl of hatred tried to get though his lips, but he quelled the reaction.
Again he turned his attention to the handsome man seated at the table. This time, the betrayal would work. His gods had promised him dominion over the city until he joined them as a lesser god. Another thought wiggled its way into his rotting brain. Why a lesser god? Why not as an equal? Which of them had thrown down a king? Which of them had ruled on earth as a mortal before ascending?
Before the insane laughter could escape his lips, the priest stole away from the room, unaware that dark eyes followed him as he disappeared into the shadows.
Napoleon, lurking somewhere between spectator and in charge of his own body, watched the bloody handed high priest of the city leave the dinner. He was aware that something was wrong, that he was not where he should be and that, somehow, he was no longer just himself. He searched for the name again, the name of the man who had control of his body.
Gil-something. The other was not aware of the danger here, although he seemed to have altered some of his behavior since the girl was murdered. Napoleon tried to fight his way through the cobwebs and viscous material that held him trapped inside his own head. For a fleeting moment, a memory of a shaggy haired blonde man gave him comfort.
Illya. Enram. The two names intertwined and became confused. Where was his friend? Two answers came to him. Illya swathed in bandages from armpit to waist, still in medical and fuming about it. Enram, war brother, standing on a rock outcrop, bloody sword in hand, proclaiming his ascension to the throne of … of … The name of the place escaped him, but the vision of the woman who came to stand at Enram's side did not. Again he knew two names: Angelique and Agieala the Golden.
Agieala, Enram's promised wife, stolen by Checador of Eshad and ravished on the altar of his tentacle god. Checador proclaiming her his highest wife before the crowd of his supporters. Agieala spitting on the fool and striking at him with a dagger she'd grabbed from another fool. She did not kill him. He struck the dagger from her hand and then struck her, knocking her senseless.
Gilasham knew a touch of jealousy that the woman preferred her promised man to him, after all, was he not Gilasham, already a king and greatest warrior of his time? He took another drink of water. Oh, how he wished he could get drunk, but that way lay dangers of another kind. His eyes wandered over the lovely women serving his men and knew that in his touch lay only death unless he proclaimed the woman his chosen.
He had no desire to keep himself only to one of them. Dark skinned, pale skinned, dusky … no one called to him as Agieala called to Enram. Gilasham smiled at that thought. Enram had told him he would know when the one called to him, that he would warm from the heart out and that he would know instantly she was the only one he would desire from then on, regardless of what his place allowed him. Enram was such a fool.
Enram was also his best friend. As he gazed around the table he had a second thought on that. Perhaps the blond was his only friend. He tossed off the water and held his cup for a refill. Thunder rumbled in the distance. What was the line? Napoleon wondered. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown?
