The Archon was dying. In his palace, beside the Square of the People and in the shadow of the great mainmast and sails that towered over Quentaris, the old man lay breathing his last.
The room was silent, save for the deep, sighing, gasping breaths of the man who had spent so much of his life serving Quentaris. His nephew Florian Eftangeny sat by his side, his plump face devoid of emotion. It wasn’t Florian’s way to show anything as weak as sadness. In fact, the only emotions he’d ever been known to show were anger, envy, bitterness, arrogance and occasionally fear. None of the good emotions, like love, or empathy, or gentleness.
‘You may touch him, my lord,’ the court physician said in a whisper.
Florian grunted. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘He’s in pain, my lord. He might like you to hold his hand.’
Florian turned his head slightly. ‘In pain, you say?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then ease it!’ Spittle flew as Florian shouted at the physician. ‘In the name of all that’s magical, man, give him something to relieve him of it!’
The physician swallowed hard, gave a quick nod, and scurried out of the room.
‘Melpeth,’ Florian snapped, pressing his fingertips to his temples.
The servant lad came over, bowing his head low. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Melpeth, I’m still waiting for the magicians.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Melpeth murmured, quickly backing away with his head still bowed. Then he too turned and scuttled out.
‘Idiots,’ Florian said. ‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’
‘Why do you even want the magicians here?’ asked a voice from the shadows that gathered amongst the wall hangings on the far side of the room. ‘What do you think Stelka and her brood of gibberers are going to do for him now?’
‘They need to see this, Janus,’ Florian replied, flapping his hand towards the tiny, shrunken man in the bed. ‘They need to see that it’s gone too far now, even for them. They need to know that there’s nothing that even they can do. That…’
‘That it’s your turn?’ Janus stepped forward into the light, eyes still hidden by the dark triangular shadows of his brow. ‘Florian, I’m only saying this because I’m your friend. I wouldn’t say this to just anyone.’
Florian looked up. ‘What’s that? What do you need to say to me?’
Janus walked across the cold marble floor on silent feet, stopped in front of Florian, and dropped to one knee. ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘It is your time.’
Florian’s eyes darted towards the Archon’s face. ‘Janus! He’s not even dead yet!’
‘Florian. You know that there is the power that is assumed, and the power that is taken, and they’re not equal. They never have been, never will be.’
‘Of course I know this – we studied the same texts,’ Florian snapped.
‘If your uncle dies now – if he simply stops breathing – you will assume great power. You’ll be the leader of Quentaris…’
‘I get the feeling that you haven’t quite finished that sentence,’ Florian said.
‘Indeed. But if you take that power, your grip will be that much the stronger. The prophecies are very clear, my friend. If he dies, you simply oversee. But if you act now, you rule!’
‘I rule.’ Florian bit his lip in thought as he glanced toward the door. ‘So it must be now?’
‘It must.’
‘Very well,’ Florian said at last. ‘Watch the door.’
‘You’ve made the right choice,’ Janus said, standing and going to the door. ‘All right, I’m standing guard.’
Florian stood, and reaching behind the Archon’s head, he tugged at one of the thick pillows. He gripped it with both hands. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The prophecies,’ Janus said.
‘Yes, the prophecies.’ He looked down at the face of his uncle. The old man’s eyelids flickered open, and as their eyes suddenly met, the Archon’s gaze widened, ever so slightly.
‘Do it now, Florian, before the doctor comes back,’ Janus prompted, his voice a hiss. ‘There’s no time to waste!’
‘I know.’ As Florian tightened his grip on the pillow, he saw the slightest shake of the Archon’s head. Perhaps he even heard a tiny whisper escape the old man’s thin, pale lips – a whisper that sounded like, ‘Don’t do this.’
‘I must,’ said Florian. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle, but it has to be this way.’
Meanwhile, unseen in the darkest corner of the room, hidden by a tall-backed chair, a young boy watched with wide, terrified, disbelieving eyes. What he saw reached deep inside him, to the part of his mind that formed words – a part that was only now learning to speak freely again – and strangled it like a thickleberry vine entangling an ancient ruin.