Free The Weight of Honor by Morgan Rice Page A

he had made a vow, and he knew he would have to honor that vow. As he approached the iron doors, he knew that what came next would not be pleasant, yet it would have to be done. After all, who in that room of politicians would want to hand him power, acknowledge him as King, even if he had been the one who had won it for them?
    They passed through an open arch and another contingent of King’s Guards stepped aside, revealing twin doors of bronze. The Council Doors, ancient things that had lasted for too many kings. They opened them wide and stepped aside, and Duncan found himself entering the Council Chamber.
    Shaped in a circle a hundred feet across, the Council Chamber had in its center a circular table of black marble, and around this there sat and stood a huge crowd of nobles, in chaos. Duncan could immediately feel the tension in the air, the sound of agitated men arguing, pacing the floor, this room more packed than he’d ever seen it. Usually inside there sat an orderly group of a dozen nobles, sitting about, presided over by the old King. Now the room sat packed with a hundred men, all dressed in their fancy garb. Duncan would expect the mood to be jubilant here, after his victory—but not with these men. They were professional malcontents.
    In their center stood Tarnis, and as Duncan and his men entered, they all stopped bickering and fell silent. All heads turned, stunned looks on their faces, looks of surprise and awe and respect—and especially of fear, fear of the change that was about to happen.
    Duncan marched into the center with his commanders, while he had the rest of his dozens of men take up positions around the periphery of the room, standing guard silently all around the outskirts. It was the show of force that Duncan wanted. If these men resisted him, plotted to keep themselves in power, Duncan wanted to remind them who had freed the capital, who had defeated Pandesia. He saw the nobles glance nervously at his soldiers, then back to him, as he approached. Professional politicians to the end, they showed no reaction.
    Tarnis, the most professional of them all, turned to Duncan and broke into a quick, forced smile. He reached out his arms and began to approach.
    “Duncan!” he called out warmly, as if to embrace a long lost brother.
    Tarnis, in his sixties, with well-tanned skin, fine lines, and soft silky gray hair that fell to his chin, had always had a pampered, manicured look to him; of course he would, as he had lived a life of pomp and luxury his entire life. His face also bore a look of wisdom—yet Duncan knew that look was just a facade. He was a fine actor, the finest of them all, and he knew how to project wisdom. That, indeed, was what had enabled him to rise to power. From all their years together, Duncan knew he was a master of appearing to feel one way—and acting another.
    Tarnis stepped forward and embraced Duncan, and Duncan coldly embraced him back, still unsure how to feel about him. He still felt stung, supremely disappointed by this man whom he had once respected as a father. After all, this was the man who had surrendered the land. It was insulting for Duncan to see him here, in this hall of power, after Duncan’s victory, in which he no longer deserved to be. And by the way all the nobles still looked to him, Duncan could sense that Tarnis assumed he still was king. It was, remarkably, as if nothing had changed.
    “I thought to never lay eyes upon you again,” Tarnis added. “Especially not under circumstances like these.”
    Duncan stared back, unable to get himself to muster a smile. He had always been honest with his emotions, and he could not pretend to feel warmth for the man.
    “How could you have done this?” shouted out an angry voice.
    Duncan turned and looked across the table to see Bant, the warlord of Baris, southern neighbor to the capital, staring back angrily at him. Bant was known to be a difficult man, a cantankerous man, as were all the people of