“What are you talking about?” Alric looked at him. “Take care of what? What are you taking care of?”

“A number of things, Your Majesty. There is the securing of the castle, the investigation as to how this happened, the apprehension of those responsible, arrangements for the funeral, and of course, the eventual coronation.”

“Coronation?”

“You are king now, sire. We will need to arrange your crowning ceremony, but that, of course, will wait until we have everything else settled.”

“But I thought…Wylin told me the murderers have been captured.”

“He captured two of them. I’m just making certain there aren’t anymore.”

“What will happen to them?” He looked back at the still form of his father. “The killers, what will happen to them?”

“That is up to you, Your Royal Majesty. Their fate is yours to decide, unless you would prefer I handle the matter for you, since it can be quite unpleasant.”

Alric turned to his uncle. “I want them to die, Uncle Percy. I want them to suffer horribly and then die.”

“Of course, Your Majesty, of course. I assure you they will.”

The dungeons of Essendon Castle lay buried two stories beneath the earth. Ground water seeped through cracks in the walls and wet the face of the stone. Fungus grew in the mortar between stone blocks, and mold coated the wood of doors, stools, and buckets. The foul, musty smell mixed with the stench of decay, and the corridors echoed with the mournful cries of doomed men. Despite the rumors told in Medford’s taverns, the castle dungeons had a limited capacity. Needless to say, the prison staff found room for the king-killers. They moved prisoners to provide Royce and Hadrian with their own private cell.

News of the king’s death did not take long to spread, and for the first time in years, the prisoners had something exciting to talk about.

“Who’da thought I’d outlast old Amrath,” a graveled voice muttered. He laughed, but the laughter quickly broke into a series of coughs and sputters.

“Any chance the prince might review our sentences on account of all this?” A weaker, younger voice asked. “I mean it’s possible, isn’t it?”

This question was met with a lengthy silence, more coughing, and a sneeze.

“The guard said they stabbed the bastard in the back right in his own chapel. What does that say about his piety?” A new bitter voice questioned. “Seems to me he was asking for a bit too much from the man upstairs.”

“The ones that done it ’ere in our old cell. They moved me and Danny out to make room. I saw ’em when they shifted us, two of ’em, one big, the other little.”

“Anyone know ’em? Maybe they was trying to break us out and got sidetracked, eh?”

“Gotta have some pretty big brass ones to kill a king in his own castle. They won’t get a trial, not even a fake one. I’m surprised they’ve lived this long.”

“Gonna want a public torture before the execution. Things been quiet a long time. Haven’t had a good torture in years.”

“So why ya think they did it?”

“Why don’t you ask ’em?”

“Hey, over there? You conscious in that cell of yours? Or did they beat you stupid?”

“Maybe they’re dead.”

They were not dead, but neither were they talking. Royce and Hadrian stood chained to the far wall of their cell, their ankles locked in stocks, and their mouths gagged with leather muzzles. They had only been there for the better part of an hour, but already the strain on Hadrian’s muscles was painful. The soldiers had removed their gear, cloaks, boots, and tunics, leaving them with nothing but their britches to fight the damp chill of the dungeon.

They hung listening to the rambling conversations of the other inmates. The conversation halted at the sound of heavy approaching footfalls. The door to the cellblock opened and banged against the interior wall.

“Right this way, Your Royal Highness—I mean, Your Royal Majesty,” the voice of the dungeon warden said rapidly.

A metal key twisted in the lock, and the door to their cell creaked open. Four royal bodyguards led the prince and his uncle, Percy Braga inside. Hadrian recognized Braga, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor of Melengar, but he had never seen Alric before. The prince was young, perhaps no more than twenty. He was short, thin, and delicate in appearance with light brown hair that reached to his shoulders, and only the ghost of a beard. His stature and features must have come from his mother because the former king had been a bear of a man. He wore only a silk nightshirt with a massive sword strapped comically to his side by an oversized leather belt.

“These are the ones?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Braga replied.

“Torch,” Alric commanded, snapping his fingers impatiently as a soldier pulled one from the wall bracket and held it out for him. Alric scowled at the offer. “Hold it near their heads. I wish to see their faces.” Alric peered at them. “No marks? They haven’t been whipped?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Braga said. “They surrendered without a fight and Captain Wylin thought it best to lock them up while he searched the rest of the castle. I approved his decision. We can’t be certain these two acted alone in this.”

“No, of course not. Who gave the order to gag them?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

“Do you wish their gags removed?” Percy inquired.

“No, Uncle Percy—oh, I can’t call you that anymore, can I?”

“You’re the king now, Your Majesty. You can call me whatever you wish.”

“But it isn’t dignified, not for a ruler, but archduke is so formal—I will call you, Percy, is that all right?”

“It is not my place to approve of your decisions any longer, sire.”

“Percy it is then, and no, leave their gags on. I have no desire to hear their lies. What will they say except that they didn’t do it? Captured killers always deny their crimes. What choice do they have? Unless they wish to take their last few moments of life to spit in the face of their king. I won’t give them the satisfaction of that.”

“They could tell us if they were working alone or for someone else. They could even tell us who that person or persons might be.”

Alric continued to study them. His eyes focused on a twisted mark in the shape of an M on Royce’s left shoulder. He squinted and then, out of frustration, snatched the torch from a guard and held it painfully close to Royce’s face for a moment. “What is this here? Like a tattoo, but not quite.”

“A brand, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “It is the Mark of Manzant. It would seem this creature was once an inmate of Manzant Prison.”

Alric looked puzzled. “I didn’t think inmates were released from Manzant, and I wasn’t aware anyone has ever escaped.”

Braga appeared puzzled as well.

Alric then moved to inspect Hadrian. When he observed the small silver medallion that hung around his neck, the prince lifted it, turned it over with mild curiosity, and then let it go with disdain.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alric said. “I really don’t think they look like the type to volunteer information. In the morning have them hauled out to the square and tortured. If they say anything of merit, have them beheaded.”

“If not?”

“If not, quarter them slowly. Draw their bowels into the sun and have the royal surgeon keep them alive as long as possible. Oh, and before you do, make certain heralds have time to make several announcements. I want a crowd for this. People need to know the penalty for treason.”

“As you wish, sire.”

Alric started for the door, and then stopped. He turned and struck Royce across the face with the back of his hand. “He was my father, you worthless piece of filth!” The prince walked out, leaving the two hanging helplessly awaiting the dawn.

Hadrian could only guess how long they had been hanging against the wall; perhaps two or three hours had passed. The faceless voices of the other inmates grew less frequent until they stopped entirely, silenced with boredom or sleep. The muzzle covering his mouth became soaked with spit and he found it difficult to breathe. His wrists were sore where the shackles rubbed and his back and his legs ached. To make matters worse, the cold tightened his muscles, making the strain even more painful. Not wanting to look at Royce, he alternated between closing his eyes and staring at the far wall. He did his best to avoid thinking about what would happen when daylight came. Instead, his mind was full of thoughts of self-incrimination—this was his fault. His insistence on breaking rules landed them where they were. Their death was on his hands.