All the King's Men (3 page)

Although Vida barely managed to keep her composure, one of
the Guardians didn’t fare so well. He broke away from the other men and
collapsed to his knees alongside the card, reaching out for the future queen.
The woman looked right through him as though she had no idea he was there.

Nelina Lannen is meant for the king. The
new
king.
See to it that the mating tests occur in a week. And Vida? We’ve watched over
you for centuries. When this is over, your duty to us will have come to an end.
You’ll be free to live the rest of your mortal life any way you wish. We don’t
need to remind you what’s at stake—for you, and for Aris. Don’t disappoint us.

The words fluttered through Vida’s mind on a whispering
breeze, spoken by a lilting female voice. A heartbeat later, the magic
suffusing the room dissipated so abruptly that the seer swayed on her feet. She
reached out to steady herself by gripping the edge of the table and closed her
eyes, waiting for the bout of nausea that roiled in her stomach to pass.

When she opened them, the Guardians were gone and the cards
lay motionless. The images that decorated the surface of each card remained
dormant. Even the King of Wands now rested on his card as still as any other
drawing. He no longer looked anything like Shivar.

A sigh of relief slid out between her parted lips before she
could stop it. The tears she’d almost managed to keep at bay slipped out
unheeded now, spilling over her cheeks and trickling down her neck, into the
valley between her breasts.

“Let the king know I need to see him. And tell him to gather
his men,” Vida managed to utter when she could catch her breath. She swept
impatiently at the tears that stubbornly continued to flow. “Wake them all if
you have to. This can’t wait.”

Chapter Two

Gods, he thought this day would never end.

Kirel Turion stretched his arms over his head, feeling the
sore muscles in his back languidly extend and ripple as the pent-up stress of
the day began to slowly ebb. He’d risen before the sun had come up. The king
had scheduled an endless array of meetings with the Royal Council, followed by
more meetings with various leaders of alien planets, all of which had to be
carefully monitored at all times.

By far the most tense encounter had taken place between the
king and the ruler of Aris’ closest neighbor Zuuvi, a relatively small planet
inhabited by the most war-like species Kirel had ever faced. Their leader, a
vicious blue-skinned alien named Dissu, had escalated his demands and insisted
that Aris come to the planet’s aid as it struggled to fight in the
intergalactic war it had started over a decade earlier.

Unlike its neighbors, Aris didn’t build advanced weapons,
which left them without the means—or the inclination—to involve themselves in
such a battle. Nevertheless, Dissu insisted that King Shivar send as many of
his men as possible to fill the front battle lines.

Kirel hadn’t put it past the creepy little alien to make an
attempt on the king’s life, so he and the other Guardians had been even more
vigilant than usual. None of them had left their posts at Shivar’s side for
more than a few seconds, and even then, remaining Guardians would close in
around Shivar, ready to protect him with their lives if it came to that.

A couple of times it almost had.

Glad to put the day behind him, Kirel stripped out of his
skin-tight
skella
and changed into a light pair of beige linen pants and
a loose brown tunic. Although Nelina’s scent had washed off them long ago, the
old garments brought him a touch of comfort in the late hours of the night. For
a short while they allowed him to wrap himself in old memories and try to
forget it was his fault that the only woman he’d ever love was dead.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled.
Restlessness jolted his belly and snaked up his spine. His instincts kicked in,
warning him that something was wrong.

Kirel shook his head to clear it. He tried to convince
himself that his agitation came from the series of ever-escalating threats from
the rest of the known universe toward a planet that could barely defend itself.
For years the Royal Council had tried to convince King Shivar to at least
consider building defensive weaponry.

His answer was always the same. “The Tradition rules Aris.
The Tradition will protect us.” Kirel spat out the words he’d heard a million
times. The Tradition was a giant pain in the ass.

If it cared about Aris, it would have chosen a new mate for
Shivar a long time ago. And it wouldn’t demand such heavy sacrifices from the
people it should be protecting.

Annoyed by the direction his thoughts had taken, Kirel paced
the length of his room. He wanted to think about Nelina and lose himself in
dreams of her soft curves, her strong limbs, her sweet cunt.

Instead, he found himself restlessly traversing his chamber
from one wall to the other. Like every other space in the castle, it was richly
decorated with colorful tapestries, plush carpets and gleaming mahogany tables.
Even his bed was gigantic. It sat against the far wall and overshadowed every
other piece of furniture. With its deep blue velvet canopies and fluted
columns, it looked as ridiculously overdone as all the other ornate decorations
that surrounded him at all hours of the day and night.

And like everything else, the vast expanse of the luxurious
plush mattress only served to remind him of his solitude and his captivity.

Guardians were chosen even before birth, based on their
lineage. Only the first-born sons of the king’s councilmen—his most loyal
servants—could be honored with the position of Guardian. A legend had been
passed down through generations and over time had become a favorite bedtime
story of every Arisian child. The legend told the tale of a farmer named
Gwyntham. He was a simple man who cared greatly for his wife, his three
children and his crops. One day, the first king of Aris, King Junnomere, and
his entourage were caught in an unexpected sandstorm and forced to take shelter
at Gwyntham’s farm.

The farmer welcomed the king with open arms, providing him
and his men with the full extent of his hospitality. That night, one of the
king’s courtiers who deemed himself worthy of wearing the crown snuck into the
room where Junnomere was sleeping and stabbed him to death.

Only the man he stabbed wasn’t Junnomere at all. During
dinner, Gwyntham began to speculate that the dark currents of jealousy and
ambition ran through the king’s men. Before retiring for the night, Gwyntham
had offered to take the king’s place and serve as a decoy. Junnomere hadn’t
wanted to believe any of his men capable of such a heinous act, but he’d
indulged the farmer’s whims, knowing the man’s heart was in the right place.

When the crime was revealed and the traitor apprehended,
Junnomere was so overcome with gratitude that he took Gwyntham’s first-born son
under his wing. He raised the child as his own, and when he turned
twenty-three, the royal seer proclaimed him to be the first Guardian, charged
with the duty of watching over the king and putting Junnomere’s life before his
own.

In truth, Kirel had no idea how much of that story was true,
but it sure made for a good tale. For centuries Guardians had been chosen,
trained and instilled with the basic principles of duty above pleasure, the
king above self. Those simple concepts ruled the men’s lives.

Training began the moment future Guardians could take their
first steps. They were taught to read and write, to reason logically and to
fight as if they’d been born with a sword in their hand. In addition, each man
was taught a trade, in case he was never called to active duty. Some of the Guardians
who weren’t immediately required by the current king would be able to live on
palace grounds and carry out a relatively normal existence until they were
needed.

Eventually though, they were all needed.

The minimum age of service was twenty-three. On the day of
their birthday, those who’d been chosen to serve immediately would flawlessly
step into their roles as the king’s private bodyguards. Forbidden to leave the
castle grounds unless it was to accompany their king, the Guardians lived and
breathed duty. Their obligation lasted twenty years…if they lived that long.
Many didn’t.

In return for two decades of dedicated service and complete
loyalty, those who survived to see the age of retirement were granted a small
piece of land and given leave to spend the rest of their days as they wished.
Kirel had twelve years left.

Currently, two other Guardians stood alongside Kirel. Thor
was the oldest of the Guardians and as such considered himself a protector of
the Guardians themselves. Domenic, on the other hand, had only been a Guardian
for two years. At twenty-five, he was still young enough to see past the
overwhelming sense of duty and take full advantage of the perks that came with
the job—particularly those perks that came with female attention.

Kirel didn’t care for such pursuits. Until his service
ended, his life belonged to the king. When he wasn’t on duty, he was free to
roam the castle grounds as he wished. He could take a lover, but the thought
held little appeal. What use would it be to sate his body’s needs in a willing
vessel if his mind and his heart forever belonged to someone else?

He’d heard the rumors being whispered in dark corners of the
castle. The servants spoke of the recluse Guardian. Some called him a
narcissistic hermit who preferred his own company over that of others. Well, so
be it. If that kind of gossip allowed him a few hours of peace each night, he’d
gladly allow the insinuations to continue.

Not that he could do much to stop them even if he’d wanted
to. The castle seemed to teem with a life of its own. Driven by its
inhabitants’ penchant for scandal, nothing that happened within its walls
remained secret for long.

Releasing a deep breath on a frustrated sigh, Kirel reached
for a delicate, green-glazed goblet. It had been filled with the finest pale
pink wine imported from Siccia, a planet located two hundred light years away
from Aris.

Only the best for the king’s men
, Kirel thought
bitterly. He drained his cup then refilled it from a pitcher sitting nearby.

Instead of easing the dull ache that had settled behind his
brow, the drink only served to intensify it. Frustration mounting, Kirel
crossed the distance to the balcony overlooking the castle’s yard. He pulled
open the doors and stepped into the enclosed terrace.

A bitter wind knocked on the glass windows, rattling the
panes. Above his head, tattered clouds swam across the three moons, dimming
their brilliant glow. When he was young, his mother would tell him stories of
the Fates who watched over them. Faey, the oldest, ruled the green moon. Maewyn
held sway over the red while the youngest—Ileth—made her home in the blue moon.
There were others too, Gods who ruled alongside the Fates and kept a vigilant
eye on Aris.

Such nonsense.

Oh he believed in magic like everyone else. He’d seen proof
of the supernatural with his own eyes over the years, but he doubted its power
to keep the planet safe from those who would see it destroyed. What good were
magical beings living in distant moons against civilizations that carved out
their territory using weapons that could obliterate Aris with the push of a
button?

Leaning against a narrow balustrade, Kirel peered out into
the gardens surrounding the perimeter of the castle. A dust storm had formed
sometime during the day and now it kicked up billowing red sand particles,
obscuring his view of everything but the colorful twinkle of lights winking
from atop tall ornate walls surrounding the courtyard.

Though muted by the storm and the thick windowpanes, the
agitated beat of hooves caught his attention. He glanced down and watched a
stable hand walk alongside two sleek black horses. Behind them, they drew a
royal carriage to the base of the circular steps leading into the castle.

From his vantage point, Kirel could only catch brief
glimpses of the masked horses as they shook their harnesses and stamped their
hooves in the thick dust.

A swift knock on the door made Kirel spin around abruptly.
His fingers tightened around the goblet he still held in his hand. A summons at
this hour of the night was never good news.

“Come.”

The door opened and a broad-shouldered man entered the room.
The traditional
skella
of a Guardian clung to his firm physique. Taller
than Kirel and wider across the shoulders, he cut an imposing figure at the
king’s side.

“Thor.” On any other day, the sight of his friend would have
made Kirel smile. Tonight, it only caused his brows to draw downward in a
frown. “Why are you still in uniform? What’s happened?”

The Guardian shifted his weight from the balls of his feet
to his heels then back again. Although the traditional mask hid Thor’s face,
his anxiety was clear and it mirrored Kirel’s.

“The royal seer conducted another reading tonight.”

Kirel huffed out a relieved breath. He’d almost forgotten
about the rituals the seer conducted every time the three moons hung like fat
globes in the night sky. For a decade, her quest to reach the Fates who guided
the hand of the Tradition had been fruitless. Aris had remained without a
queen, the king without an heir.

“They’ve called for us then?” Kirel asked, already reaching
for his discarded
skella
.

“Yes. They want us in the king’s chambers immediately.
Domenic’s on his way.” A shadow of a smile formed beneath Thor’s face mask. “I
believe he was occupied when I knocked on his door. I’m surprised he even heard
me over the moans and groans coming out of his room.”

Kirel chuckled and tugged the loose tunic over his head
before throwing it on the bed. His linen pants followed.