Chapter 16: The Wolf and the Peacock
Lysander walked through the dimly lit corridors of the palace with a renewed sense of purpose.
Just an hour ago he had been sitting in his chamber drowning in wine and paranoia. Then a heavy handed soldier had knocked on his door delivering a crumpled piece of parchment bearing the crude wax seal of House Morvath. General Draven had summoned him.
Lysander smoothed the front of his pristine white tunic. He was stepping back into the military wing but this time he was not a desperate beggar. He was an invited guest.
He approached the heavy iron doors of the General’s private war room.
A young maid was kneeling on the cold stone floor just outside the entrance. She was scrubbing a dark stain from the flagstones with a soapy brush. She wore the drab oversized grey uniform common to the lower servants.
As Lysander approached she immediately stopped scrubbing and pressed her forehead to the wet stone in a display of absolute submission. Lysander did not even break his stride. He stepped around her treating her with the same disregard he would give a piece of broken furniture.
For a fraction of a second the maid tilted her head slightly. Lysander caught a brief flash of her eyes. She quickly looked back down hiding her face in the shadows.
Lysander ignored her completely. Servants were invisible. They did not matter.
He pushed open the heavy iron doors and stepped into the war room.
The chamber was filled with the scent of oiled leather and stale ale. General Draven stood over a massive wooden table covered in tactical maps and troop deployments. He looked up as Lysander entered. The giant warlord looked exhausted and deeply furious.
"Close the door," Draven grumbled taking a long swallow from a horn cup.
Lysander pushed the heavy doors shut. He heard the faint sound of the maid’s brush scrubbing the stone outside.
"You summoned me General," Lysander said keeping his voice perfectly measured. He needed to project confidence.
"You were right," Draven spat slamming his cup down on the wooden table. "The southern poet is a plague. He took the promotion files. He is actively replacing my loyal captains in the City Guard with men who owe their new ranks entirely to him. If I let this continue he will sever my control over the capital in a matter of weeks."
Lysander felt a surge of triumphant adrenaline. The great General Draven Morvath the most feared warlord in the empire was admitting defeat. And he was asking Lysander for help.
"I warned you Draven," Lysander said stepping closer to the table. "Silas is a parasite. He infects the Queen’s mind and uses her authority as a shield. You cannot strike him directly without committing treason."
"I know that you golden haired fool," Draven snarled leaning over the table. "I have the swords but I cannot use them. You have a poisonous mind. You know how the harem works. You know how the shadows operate. I brought you here because I need a plan. Tell me how to gut this upstart without leaving my fingerprints on the blade."
Lysander smiled. It was a beautiful wicked smile. He looked down at the tactical maps and his mind began to race.
"The Blood Moon Banquet is in three days," Lysander said his blue eyes gleaming with malice. "The entire court will be in attendance. The Queen the High Priest the nobles and the consorts. The wine will flow and the religious fervor will be blinding."
"The palace will be heavily guarded," Draven pointed out crossing his massive arms.
"Guarded by your men," Lysander corrected. "Or at least the men you still control. During the climax of the banquet the Queen will drink from the Chalice of Shadows. All eyes will be on the dais. Silas will be seated with the other consorts near the back of the hall."
Lysander traced a path on the map with his elegant finger.
"You have access to the lower fighting pits Draven," Lysander continued. "You know men who fight for coin and blood. Men who wear no uniform and carry no official rank. Unregistered mercenaries."
Draven’s dark eyes narrowed as he caught the vision. "I can find a dozen killers who do not exist on any royal ledger."
"Bring them into the palace through the servant tunnels," Lysander whispered. "Leave the side doors of the banquet hall unlocked. When the High Priest begins his final chant the mercenaries strike. They flood the hall and target the consorts. It will look like a chaotic rebel attack. A tragic breach of security."
"And in the chaos," Draven rumbled a cruel grin spreading across his scarred face, "Silas gets a dagger in his ribs. The mercenaries are killed by my guards before they can be interrogated. Silas dies. I look like a hero for stopping the attack. And the Queen never suspects a thing."
"Exactly," Lysander breathed.
It was a brutal and brilliant plan. It bypassed Silas’s intellect entirely by overwhelming him with sheer untraceable violence in a crowded room.
"I will gather the men," Draven said picking up his horn cup. "You make sure Silas is seated exactly where he is supposed to be. If this fails Lysander I will feed you to the hounds."
"It will not fail," Lysander promised bowing deeply.
He turned and walked out of the war room his heart soaring with absolute victory. He had done it. He had allied with the military and forged a weapon that Silas could not possibly anticipate.
Lysander stepped back into the corridor.
The stone floor outside the door was wet and clean. The maid with the pale green eyes was gone. Lysander did not give her absence a second thought as he walked back toward the Consort Quarters completely unaware that his flawless secret plan was already racing through the shadows straight to Silas’s ear.
