Fugitive of Death

Chapter 23

 King Kostas was not at all what I had anticipated based on the way people reacted to his name. He was short for a man, shorter than Xander. Whatever muscles he had in his youth had been replaced by fat, a round stomach sagging over his jewel-encrusted belt. Rings squeezed his fingers, digging into the skin. His only saving grace was the neatly trimmed beard that no doubt hid a double chin.

"You may approach," he said in a nasally voice I already did not want to hear any more of.

Xander bumped my shoulder and I forced myself to move forward. Nobles dressed extravagantly lined the path to the King's raised throne, watching and murmuring as I passed. Looking down at myself, I suddenly felt woefully unimpressive under their stares.

Ignore them, Death rumbled. You are Divine. They are worms in expensive textiles.

I bit back a laugh as I knelt before the King, not daring to look at anything other than the cold tile floor beneath me. A moment later, Xander knelt beside me.

"Rise," the King commanded, then sighed. "So Xander, what have you brought me?"

I eyed Xander as I stood, watching his larynx bob against the collar of his uniform.

The King makes him nervous, Death said, finishing my line of logic.

"A Divine has been proclaimed from my last batch of cadets," Xander said.

A flurry of whispers erupted from the audience of nobles.

I glanced at the King, who merely rested his cheek on his fist. "Is that so?"

His tone was so condescending my fear dissipated. Anger rose within me but a shadowy force quickly snuffed it out.

Calm yourself, Death said. We are, as mortals say, on eggshells here.

King Kostas rose, bouncing down the stairs to meet us. Even up close, he was less than impressive. I could see glimmers of Xander in him. They had the same short dark hair and full lips. But that was it—the King seemed to be his son's opposite in most regards.

Except for that patronizing glimmer I saw in the King's dark eyes. I'd seen Xander try to imitate that same leer so many times before but now, seeing it in person, I realized that Xander's was a cheap knockoff.

When the King condescended, he meant it from the depths of his shriveled little heart.

A fat hand gripped my chin and I fought every instinct to rip my face out of his grasp. The King turned my head from side to side, examining me.

"She's not much," he said. "Pretty, but in a very Byssian way." The nobles hissed at that comment. "How do you know she has been chosen?"

Xander shifted from one foot to the other. "After the Culling, she returned to camp in spite of her...ineptitude, different. You can see it in her eyes. She speaks with Death. I have seen the power she shares with the Horror."

More gasps from the nobles.

The King merely narrowed his eyes. "What is your name, cadet?"

"Bibi, Your Majesty," I said, my throat dry.

"Bibi..."

"Just Bibi."

The King let go of my chin and faced his son, face darkening. "She is no one. A Byssian bastard."

"She was a cadet from the border," Xander said, recoiling slightly at his father's ire.

"Why has she been chosen?"

Xander glanced at the floor. "Of that, I am not yet certain."

"How do I know this is not a sham, boy?" The King asked, his tone downright acidic. "I would not put it passed you to conjure this farce in order to gain my good graces once more."