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Damon struggles to sit up. Lyr watches his face as he begins to understand what has happened. He looks at Lyr.
“The whore stabbed Endrew,” Atticul shouts. “Stabbed him to death! The whore is a Juran spy. Loyal to Hevelikar. Guards, take him to the dungeons!”
Lyr’s head is swimming. There are heavy hands on him. Palace guards. Hauling him to his feet as Damon snarls, lifting himself off the floor.
19
DAMON
Damon has never become so aware of a situation so fast.
He bellows out, “No,” sounding like an animal as he staggers to his feet, but he’s not right, not himself. His limbs are water, his head is thick and slow, his balance is off. He grabs the dagger from Endrew’s chest but stumbles as he does it. He stops himself falling at the last moment, lurching back to his feet, realising he has slipped in Endrew’s blood.
He turns. A dozen palace guards are descending on him. Where did they come from?
He barely thinks as he sticks the dagger in the neck of the nearest one.
He hears Lyr’s voice, screaming out, “Damon. Damon, don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t make it worse.” Damon looks. Lyr is being dragged from the room.
Before he can react, more palace guards are on him, too many now, forcing him to his knees in numbers he cannot fight. Not like this. The dagger is forced out of his hand by a blow from a sword hilt. There’s another sword at his neck.
Endrew is dead. He’s lying dead on the floor.
“Your slave will die for this, Bastard,” Atticul snarls.
Damon makes a sound of anger in response, words beyond him, but he knows it's true. His mind races. Did Atticul plan this? He can’t have. He’s not clever enough to be behind something like this.
It’s still Atticul’s fault. Lyr will die for this and it’s Atticul’s fault.
Atticul is a dead man. Damon will kill him.
He will…
Damon roars in rage and frustration wrenches free from the men holding him and surges forward. He manages to hit Atticul in the face, hard enough that he goes down. Damon wants to kill him, would kill him, but he is wrestled back by the guards and two of Atticul’s personal bodymen. He is forced down to the ground and pinned there with four men on his back.
He glances to the side. He sees Trysta staring at him, from her stance and her expression, he is sure she is preparing to attack. Opeth is next to her, a hand on her arm. He shakes his head at her, a small gesture, but it's all she needs. She takes a half step back.
The wail that goes up next would put the cries of every widow Damon has ever created to shame.
Rafus.
Damon’s father, who had been in an alcove with three whores, stumbles over to Endrew’s body and drops to his knees. He’s half-dressed. His breeches gone, his shirt barely fastened as he falls on his son’s body, sobbing, “My boy, my boy. My Sweetpea. My beautiful, innocent Sweetpea.” He looks up, face red and tear-streaked. “Who has done this?”
“The bastard’s slave,” Atticul says, sitting up from the floor where Damon’s blow sent him. He nurses his bruised face with a careful hand.
“Who? What?” Rafus looks around. Damon realises his father has no idea what this means. He doesn’t know who Lyr is.
Damon says, “Lyr, my slave from Pellex.” His voice sounds heavy and slow.
“Where is he?” Rafus spits. “Where is the slave who would dare to do such a thing? I will have him tortured personally until he begs for death.” Damon notices his father isn’t looking at him. Can’t look at him. Rafus gets to his feet shakily. He looks at Atticul. “I am asking you, Atticul. Where he is?”
“I had my men take him to the dungeons, Father,” Atticul says. “Do not fear. He will pay for this with his wretched life.”
“I will speak to Selim,” Rafus fumes. “That filthy Juran wretch will die screaming for this.”
Damon swallows. “Please, father—,” he begins.
Rafus still won’t look at him. Endrew’s body looks so small on the floor. “Do not speak to me, Bastard,” Rafus snaps, “Do not speak to me you foul child of sin.” He shakes his head. “They said you would bring misfortune to me if I took you in. I told them they were wrong.”
