King's Man and Thief by Christie Golden Read Free Book Online Page B

decorations and a crowd of revelers, the feast hall seemed to Castyll gloomy and enormous. As he entered, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, dried rushes crunched under his booted feet. Torches burned smokily and the windows were open. Bhakir, still hypocritically clad in the long, flowing robe of sky blue that was worn only by counselors, awaited him at the laden table.
    Bhakir did not look like a devious usurper. He looked more like someone's benevolent uncle. He was short and rotund, and his bright brown eyes seemed to always sparkle with laughter. He wore a beard, black and neatly trimmed, as if to compensate for the thinning hairs that barely covered his pate. Like the beautiful carnivorous flowers that were said to bloom in the Elvenlands, Bhakir lured the unwary with that doughy, defenseless exterior and a sweet, seductive laugh that encompassed everyone present. It was only when he had you, thought Castyll with a burst of impotent anger, when you had delicately put your oh-so-fragile insect legs on the shiny surface of the vile creature's mouth, that the teeth would appear. They would crunch down with a suddenness so swift that some were doomed even before they knew the instrument of their betrayal.
    Castyll had never been taken in. Neither had his father. Both king and prince had mistrusted the man from the moment he had been elected to the Council, but they were powerless to dismiss him. Had Bhakir been convicted of a crime, he would have been removed from any position of power within the Mharian government. But no breath of scandal touched him. And Castyll knew, with a heaviness that lay on his heart like something tangible, that there were those in Bhakir's inner circle who still held him blameless in the sudden death of the king.
    "Ah!" boomed Bhakir, clapping his pudgy hands together in a facsimile of delight. "Good morning to you, Your Majesty. Did you enjoy your walk through the grounds?"
     
    "Yes," replied Castyll curtly. He plopped into a hard, carved wooden chair and glared sullenly at Bhakir. He was the man's prisoner. That did not mean he had to show him courtesy.
    Bhakir's dancing eyes narrowed, and for an instant, he bore a closer resemblance to a poisonous reptile than a jolly uncle. The king half expected the fat counselor to open his mouth and display a lolling, forked tongue.
    Instead, Bhakir forced a smile. "Then you'll have worked up an appetite." Silk on satin was his voice. Strangers were charmed; Castyll felt a finger of fear prickle along the back of his neck. For now, Castyll thought, he'll take it from me. But not for much longer. How much time do I have left? he thought with a sudden stab of despair. Breathing suddenly became difficult. How many weeks, days, hours will it be until I am no longer necessary?
    Bhakir gestured and unsmiling servants entered, bearing plates heaped high with food. A cold soup, made with the fresh fruits of the summer, was brought in a gorgeous ceramic bone tureen. The handles were modified lion's heads. Three varieties of bread were served, along with cold and hot roasts and fowl. Castyll watched the parade of food with faint disgust. The midday meal in his father's time had been, often as not, a crude repast of cold meat with a slice of bread wrapped around it, eaten on horseback or while at lessons. The spread before him was far more lavish than the occasion warranted. Bhakir, he knew, would eat twice as much as his king, who was a growing youth. Castyll said nothing, sitting stonily as food that would choke a glutton was piled high in front of him, obscuring the crest of Mhar that was painted on all the plates and serving dishes.
    "I know how dining with only me to keep you company bores you, King Castyll," Bhakir said amiably as he spread a thick slice of bread with herb butter. "So I've decided to invite a few guests to join us over the next several weeks."
    The constriction around Castyll\s chest that had sprung up without warning a few