Read The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key for Free Online

rehearsal.”
    Torin held his bow until he reached the doorway, then flashed her a grin of his own and stole from the room.
    Amazingly enough, he was able to reach his chambers almost without interruption. The entire palace had awoken early, it seemed, no doubt in preparation for the midmorning rehearsal. The halls were filled with decorators, designers, organizers of all form and fashion. Fortunately, most were too busy to spare him more than a nod in greeting. Those who sought more seemed understanding enough when he politely excused himself, and went about their business.
    The coronation. His fate, such as it was, made formal and sealed at last. He’d escaped it as long as he could—longer, in fact, than he had any right to expect. He saw no need for it. But then, this celebration wasn’t for him. It was for the people.
    With a quick word of hello to the sentinel posted outside, he ducked into his personal living quarters. As the door closed, a temporary relief settled in. An undisturbed peace so seldom to be found these days. Freedom from retainers, courtiers, and supplicants of every variety. Upon second thought, perhaps this rehearsal wasn’t such a bad idea. At least it offered a break from the usual routine, a respite from the long days of giving audience to everyone from city planners to local guildmasters to simple well-wishers—an endless menagerie of those in need, those with grievances, and those who sought to form alliances or otherwise sway him to their particular cause.
    He glanced around the sitting room with its hearth and overstuffed chairs. Breakfast had not yet arrived. Likely, Stephan had ordered the cooks to delay until after he’d bathed, so that his food wouldn’t grow cold. As if royalty had softened him to the point of being damaged by dried bacon grease or lukewarm eggs.
    With a sigh of resignation, he moved toward the bedchamber, unbuckling his Sword belt as he went. Setting the weapon aside in the doorway, he went straight for the wardrobe closet, surprised not to find old Scar—the one-eyed cat inherited from the father he’d never known—blocking the doors as usual. For once, the beast had found something better to do than make his life difficult.
    He pulled forth his bathrobe and slung it over an adjacent chair. The bath itself would be waiting by now across the hall. He stripped off his boots first, then his shirt. He wore no jewelry; save for the Sword, he eschewed adornments of any kind. He was about to unlace his breeches when he twisted instead to examine his most recent welt in the mirror. Pulling one arm over at the elbow, he reached around to test the line of swollen flesh.
    Only then did he spy the intruder.
    Torin’s heart skipped. The reflection showed a figure stood on the opposite side of the room, wedged in a corner beside the shuttered window. He blinked, thinking it was Rogun, come to renew their unfinished debate. It took only a moment to determine otherwise. This figure was tall like Rogun, yet thin, wrapped tight in a cocoon of dark robes. Its face, if there was one, was mostly hidden behind damp strands of hair hanging loose about the forehead, as well as a black beard that jutted from its chin. In color and stance, it was something less than human, like a scarecrow come to life.
    Instinct drove him where rational thought could not. With legs slow and leaden, he lunged for the inner doorway between sitting room and bedchamber—and the weapon he’d left there. In the corner of his eye he spied the scarecrow, uncoiling, charging to intercept him. It moved faster than he would have imagined possible, as though its size aided rather than impeded its motion. More wraith than substance, its outline billowed and swam. He felt its shadow descend upon him, and sensed in that moment the chill of imminent death.
    Then the Sword was in his hands, its warmth burning through his palms and coursing through his veins. With a lightning motion, he reached with one hand to tear