Alone in the Great Throne Room, Elymas sprawled in the King’s chair. He’d have been comfortable if it weren’t for the hardness of the wood, but he’d tossed the pillow before sitting, having no desire for Ranald’s poison to seep into his bones. Also, the wood was smooth and if he didn’t keep both feet on the floor, he’d slide forward, like a child in an overlarge chair.  Forgetting dignity, Elymas hooked his clubbed foot over the arm of the chair. 

         The room stretched before him, its stillness broken only by the crackling of the sconces. There were at least two hundred, each holding fat tallow candles whose lights caused shadows to dance on the floor.

         The shapes were intriguing, like watching sunlight play on a forest pool. Shadow leaves spiraled downward, only to rise up again as minnows that nipped at light’s edge, appearing to feed.

Elymas shook the bottle, trying to gauge his drink. He wasn’t fanciful, but something was in the air, in this very room. Something pushing at the edges, wanting to spin events out of control. 

What rot. He poured the rest into his cup, and took a generous drink, escaping the thought. He was the one in control. 

Tonight, he’d poisoned the High King as well as his annoying councilor, Fulcruchen. Rage had prompted him. He’d been angered by Ranald’s willingness to hear the Wabber, and aghast as the swamp creature displayed the evidence. How could his men have left remains? They’d been trained by Strout and Root, whom he’d trained himself.  As he’d walked between the torn sleeve and the hand, he knew that the murders had been done by Strout and Root themselves.  The others killed with efficiency, those two with relish. He’d enforce discipline by flaying two new recruits, with a well-placed hint to Strout and Root that he knew they were guilty. The decision had banked his anger.

         Only it flared again at the Whitehair’s announcement of an earth child.  Yes, that another earth child had been born, they were being born at an astonishing rate these last years, but he’d always killed them. That this particular child had yet to be found meant nothing until Oren announced that he lived. And why should Ranald listen to the Gibbor? He was old, out of his mind, dancing in the hills.

         It had been the blue feather. 

Elymas shrugged. The feather no longer mattered. Everyone who had the power to stop him lay dead. He dropped the empty bottle on the dais where it rolled to the edge, then dropped on the stones. A girl would come in later. He poured a first glass from the second bottle.

The murders had been simple. Ten more drops added to the marvelous potion he’d used to sicken and sooth Ranald over the last few years. Ten drops and the Warrior King, invincible in Battle, had passed. Lud Sellum. He’d paid a small fortune for it, buying it from the enormous Dr. Sugallus who operated an Apothecary Shop in Old Town.