Dark Moon by David Gemmell Page B

at his temple.
    ‘Wake up, Father,’ commanded Sirano. The Duke jerked as if slapped.
    ‘What in Hell’s name?’ He glanced to his left and right. ‘Where are …?’
    ‘Gone. Tell me why you killed my mother.’
    ‘Get out! Get out before I fetch my whip!’
    ‘No more whips,’ said Sirano softly. ‘No more beatings or cold words. Just answer my question.’
    ‘Are you mad?’
    ‘As in insanity, you mean? I do believe that I am. It is not an unpleasant feeling. In fact there is some comfort in it. But let us get back to the question at hand. When you walked into that bathroom she said, “You have killed him. What more can you do to me?” You said, “Much more.” Then you drowned her. Why?’
    Colour drained from the Duke’s face as his mouth opened, then closed. ‘How …?’ he whispered at last.
    ‘It doesn’t matter, Father. Nothing matters except your answer. Speak.’
    ‘I … she … I loved her,’ he said. ‘Truly. But … it wasn’t enough for her. She took a man to her bed. One of my Guards. They were planning, I think, to have me killed. Yes, to kill me. I found out.’ Anguish twisted his face. ‘Why do you want to hear this?’
    ‘The man you killed. Was he tall and dark, with blue eyes?’
    ‘Yes. Yes, he was.’
    ‘I see,’ said Sirano. ‘I have often wondered why your mistresses never swell with child. Now I know. Your seed is not strong. And you are not my father.’
    ‘No, I am not!’ shouted the older man. ‘But you will be the Duke when I am dead. I raised you as my own. You owe me for that!’
    Sirano smiled. ‘I think not. That was just ego on your part. You robbed me of the love of a mother and a father. You have made my life miserable. But I am eighteen now, and a man. I am ready for a man’s duties. Goodbye, Father. May your soul burn!’
    Rising, Sirano spoke a single word. The snake in the glass shimmered, then was gone. The old Duke made to speak, but something swelled in his windpipe. He scrabbled at his throat and his body writhed; his hand lashed out, striking the wall with a dull thump. His legs thrashed below the sheets, a low gurgling choke came from him. Sirano watched him die, then reached down and opened the old man’s mouth.
    The head of the snake was just visible. Wrenching open the Duke’s jaws, Sirano pressed his fingers down into the throat, drawing out the serpent. It flapped and writhed around his wrist. Moving to the window, he flung the creature out into the garden.
    After the official seven days of mourning, Sirano took the Blessing and donned the mantle of the Duke of Romark. The ceremony over, he took his advisors to the ramparts of the high west wall and pointed at the mountains of the Eldarin.
    ‘There is great danger there, my friends,’ he said. ‘They are sorcerers and shape-shifters. What are they planning, do you think?’
    Eight years later the twenty-six-year-old Sirano sat listening as his captains made their reports. The forces of the Duke of Corduin had been repulsed, with heavy losses on both sides, on the western border. The renegade corsair, Belliese, had savaged a Romarkian supply fleet in the southern seas, and captured two war galleons. Elsewhere there was only one victory that could be described as anything but pyrrhic. Karis and her lancers had smashed a mercenary force heading to relieve a small fortress town eighty miles north of Loretheli. Two hundred and forty enemy soldiers were killed for the loss of fifteen dead and thirty-one wounded. The town had surrendered to Karis a day later, its treasury of 12,000 gold coins now swelling the Romark coffers. As the officers discussed tactics, Romark found his mind wandering, his gaze focusing on Karis. Tall and slim, her long dark hair held in place by a silver circlet, she radiated a martial beauty that Sirano found intoxicating. She was not classically beautiful, for her nose was long, and her face somewhat angular. Yet there was something about this warrior woman that