Chapter 98: The One Who Plotted to Assassinate the King

Crossing the White-Stone Corridor into the preparation room nearest the stage, Victor saw the man who had ruined the calm of his life—Dandrian—lavishly praising a maid with a quickly improvised little poem about her beauty.
The Harvest Song theme had been changed. As he walked, the boy had already worked it out; it must have been his own absent-mindedness the day before, when he had not quite heard the assignment correctly. He was not tense about it. Picking a heroic epic from the library of songs would be effortless.

After all, from the age of four to nine, this body had been nothing but breath and discipline—learning instruments, repeating masterpieces, preparing for an extraordinary artistic life.

Soon everyone in the hall took their places for tonight’s main event, “The King’s Arrival.” The two bards specially invited by Princess Jada stood waiting in an unremarkable corner beside the stage.
“Homage to you! King of Tamoria, Pontar, and Mahakan; Prince Soden; Lord of Erland; High Warden of the Brug, Anglin, and Ravendale valleys; His Majesty King Fortest!” At the herald’s ringing voice, Victor for the first time saw the true face of one of the two most familiar strangers in the monster-hunter world—the king of Tamoria himself.

As all bowed and pressed hands to their chests, the ruler of Tamoria entered the pure white hall in crown and regalia, handsome and noble in every line, every movement fully worthy of the songs told about him.

Noticing no one’s attention on the corner, Victor leaned toward Dandrian and whispered, “How did you do that just now?”
“What do you mean?” Dandrian thought the boy was asking something important and answered in a low, earnest tone.
“That plain, ordinary maid—how did you say, ‘the loveliest flower in the world’?”
Dandrian had no reply.

Then, as the attendants entered with King Fortest, the nearest among them was the commander of the Blue-Iron Guard, the king’s elite protector.
Just behind came a pair walking side by side: the man was Jax of Aldeburg, commander of the Flame Rose Knights.
The woman was a soberly dressed sorceress—spare in fabric when compared with Kairametz’s elegance, with red hair left loose.

Victor blinked. “The lady behind the king?”
“Tris Meligard,” came the answer.
Thank heaven, from far away she looked fair-skinned, with faint freckles, and a green jewel adorning her brow.

When King Fortest was seated and Princess Jada, as host, led the first toast, it was Dandrian’s turn.
The herald announced: “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Leitenghof, famed singer and poet of the Northern Kingdom—”

In the brief pause of the introduction, Victor edged close once more. “Right now. Go up there and let everyone hear your politics. Say the throne is not eternal, that King Fortest must step down!” He noticed sweat bead at the poet’s temple.
“Forgive me—can I not simply apologize? I promise I’ll joke only in the right setting from now on, especially with politics.”
Dandrian begged. Victor smiled and fell silent as the poet stepped onto the stage.

This was perhaps the clearest difference between boy and poet. The boy was still bound by his age: outwardly contemptuous of kingship, yet inwardly respectful of royalty. Victor was the reverse. He appeared to respect kingship, but inside… something else.

For instance, while Dandrian began plucking and singing, the boy’s mind was already turning over his latest fanciful plan: If I were an assassin, how would I move against King Fortest?

First, using magic was impossible. Every sovereign wore countless talismans against every curse and magical blow. In that case, only steel could truly wound him.
Yet getting close to the king was the true obstacle. There was the sorceress’s guard spell, Tris Meligard, whose fire magic could reduce a person to a torch in breath. Her barrier could fend off crossbow fire, and the short-range teleportation clearly recorded in the tomes was another threat—without an anti-magic bomb to suppress it, he could never even come close. She alone could kill several Victors over again.
And then there was Jax of Aldeburg. He was the very embodiment of an unsolvable problem. To have risen to command of a knightly order, his personal strength had to be near perfect; on top of that he carried cruel reserves of power. Even if he were inept at casting, a full release of his magic would leave the boy with no defense.

Those two giants were beyond Victor’s reach. As for the blue-clad, black-scarved guard nearest Fortest—the commander of the Blue-Iron Guards—he did not even know who he was, but he too would not be easy to beat.

So if an attack were launched on the king, success was unlikely, and death would be slow and painful.
To kill the king, Jax and Tris had to be away from him; ideally the Blue-Iron Guard would be gone too, and the king would need to be alone and off guard. Otherwise, if Victor failed to kill him in the first instant, in a world of such powers each of Fortest’s activated warding talismans would be far from harmless.

In the feudal age, regicide was considered the vilest betrayal, but that did not mean no one thought of it. Whenever someone did, defenses grew accordingly, and examples of assassinations that struck a king and survived the aftermath remained countable on one’s fingers.
The last such case had been in the kingdom of Ridania, when King Ladovid V’s father was slain by a half-elf assassin. Though that killer had succeeded, he was later taken and killed in terrible fashion.

As his thoughts wandered, Victor noticed the crowd through a haze: Director Tare, Shang and his friend, Captain Vincent, and Kairametz. Her face was intent and absorbed as she watched the singing. Rodney had been right, then; she truly delighted in these flashy, impractical things.

Dandrian’s song—the one Victor was hearing now—was his newest piece, born from their sharp banter on nights spent drinking together.

After three songs in succession, the poet won thunderous applause. He bowed with grace and returned to his original place, then let out a breath and fussed over the boy preparing to take the stage.
“Come on, Victor, don’t be nervous. I know you’re afraid, but there’s nothing to fear. Just bring out what you can do as you always do—just like last time when we drank and talked and argued.”

Half turning, Victor covered his mouth with a hand and gave a small yawn. “Don’t worry. I may not shine in local epics, but for foreign heroic songs, you have chosen the right one.”

When he turned back, he happened to meet Kairametz’s gaze. It was cold—not hatred, but no less dangerous. She clearly meant to give the boy a “gift”: a painful lesson, but not a fatal one.