A king? A king in chains, with blood and dirt in his beard.

Astrid had been to see him yesterday. She believed him. The question was: did he believe in himself? Because there was a tiny part of his brain that whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was not innocent of the crime. The doubt came from the blank spots in his memory – two or three days when he could not remember where he had been and what he had done. Two or three days during which Mirvar was murdered. What if a madness had come upon him, and he’d done the deed without remembering? Or maybe it was the other way round, and murdering his father had caused his mind to erase the wicked act and the moments surrounding it? But why? Why would he kill a man he loved so much?

When his father had acceded to the throne, Erik could not help but wonder what it would be like to be king. Then, he saw only the glories of the role: the great stone chair in the longhouse, the white bearskin robe, the bejewelled sword hanging at his father’s side. And at times, when he was off guard, he’d allowed himself to anticipate his father’s death and how he would take Mirvar’s place on that great seat. But these were merely the imaginings of an immature young mind, and in the years that followed, Erik came to see the terrible burdens of the role. The weight of responsibility for the people of Stromgard and the kingdom beyond rested so heavily on his father’s shoulders that it threatened to crush the great man at times. It was an onerous load Erik was only too happy not to have to carry.

That word floated into his mind again.

Murder.

His father had deserved a hero’s end. He should have died with his people, axe and sword in hand, charging into battle and cutting enemies down like wheat. Instead he had died in his bed, writhing in agony. Erik’s cousin, Kelewulf, had volunteered to ride out in search of an antidote for the poison, leaving just as the witnesses started coming forward: people who’d told how they’d seen Prince Erik at some of the less reputable market stalls, buying the articles necessary to kill a man. The witnesses were many, and they spoke of how the prince went about his work with little care for who saw him. The same items had later been found hidden in his room, along with discarded clothes reeking of the vile concoction he’d prepared. And just like that, to the people of Stromgard, he’d gone from a beloved king-in-waiting to a monster.