see straight. Composing herself, she walked down the hallway to a small parlor room decorated with lace curtains and dainty furniture. She slammed the door behind her and started to pace across the thin woven carpet. By the time a soft knock sounded, her anger had worked itself into a blistering fury.
“You!” she shouted as Hubert stepped into the room.
He quickly shut the door and stood with his arms at his sides.
Josey wanted to kick him. Instead, she resumed pacing. “First, you push me into a corner like a holy icon while you and the other ministers make decisions about my realm. Then you allow me to be ambushed by that… that man who proposes to breed me like a prize cow!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Yes?” She stopped pacing. “Yes, what?’”
“Mormaer has a valid point, Your Majesty.”
“You can call me Josey in private, Hubert.”
“Your Maj-”
She propped her fists on her hips. “Josey.”
“All right. Josey. Duke Mormaer is many things, but he is no fool. He is within his rights to raise this issue.”
“Then you had better explain it before I have you tossed in the moat.”
“The palace doesn’t have a-”
“Get on with it!”
He cleared his throat. “You must marry, and you must do it soon.”
She snatched a peach from a basket by the window, took a bite, and then thought better of it. Not seeing a place to put it, she placed the fruit back in the basket.
“Oh really? I thought I was empress. I didn’t know I had to contort my life to suit the desires of my advisors.”
“Cinattus the Younger wrote that to rule a nation is to be the servant of the people.”
“Then Cinattus can damned well marry one of Mormaer’s sons!”
She huffed while Hubert admired the floor. Finally, she relented with a nod. “I understand, but I won’t take advice from the likes of Mormaer.”
“He is very powerful, Majesty.”
“He’s a great, bloated hog!”
“That, too.” Hubert cleared his throat. “And there is another matter.”
He opened his hand. In the center of his palm sat a small ivory cameo carved in the likeness of a woman. “Lord Du’Quendel sends this with a request for a private audience.”
Josey took the plaque. “Du’Quendel. From Belastire? What does he want?”
She knew of the Du’Quendel family, though only by reputation. They were a very old noble dynasty. Not so wealthy or powerful as they once were, but still respected.
“I believe he wants a more meaningful position here at court.”
She saw the problem. Lord Du’Quendel wanted a higher rank, but had done nothing to distinguish himself for such an honor. However, the throne could not afford to insult his family. Josey ran her fingertips over the face on the token. The edges were darkened and the face marred by tiny cracks, as if the piece had been kept in a dirty niche for years or burned in a fire…
The fire.
The cellar in the earl’s house came back to her, and a row of thirteen ivory plaques, one for each member of her foster father’s secret society. This was either an exact replica, or…
“Empress, is something wrong?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just-”
Josey handed back the cameo and turned to the window. Outside, dark clouds gathered in a steely gray sky. The first snows of winter were expected any day. Expectations. They were a tricky thing. You have to face the fact that he may never come back.
“I’m tired of waiting, Hubert. Tired of the court and the problems.” She sighed. “Give Lord Du’Quendel what he wants. Take care of the details, but I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see anyone.”
“I shall inform the court. But what of the ball? Shall I postpone it?”
Josey rubbed her forehead. She had forgotten about the ball in honor of her coronation. It had sounded like a good idea when it was presented to her a month ago, but now with all the problems in the realm it felt callous and wasteful.
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow evening, Majesty. After your meeting with the Arnossi delegation.”
“I suppose it’s too late to call it off. Very well. Please send up a report of the day’s judgments and whatever else you need me to sign.”
“Very good, Majesty.”
She thanked him as she walked to the door. Flanked by her guards, she trod the lonely corridors up to her apartments.
CHAPTER THREE
C aim shifted in his cot as sunbeams stabbed his eyelids. He didn’t want to get up. It had been ages since he’d slept so well, but an empty belly and an intense need to use the chamberpot nudged him awake. I wonder if there’s any eggs left in the coldbox.
His thigh itched. He scratched at it, imagining fried eggs with a slice of ham, but the itch persisted. With a groan, he opened his eyes and discovered he wasn’t in his apartment in Othir. He blinked against the sunlight shining between the gaps in the dingy gray boards of the peaked roof twenty feet above him. Then he remembered. His apartment building had burned down months ago. Where in hell was he? A barn?
He sat up. Tight bandages bound his arm from wrist to elbow. He smelled a pungent odor coming from the wrapping; not putrefaction-thank the gods-but an earthy smell. Some kind of poultice.
Following the itch, Caim pulled away the old blanket to find he was in his smallclothes. He nearly jumped when he saw the throbbing shadow wrapped around his thigh, sucking at the wound through a layer of bandages. He grabbed for it, but the thing slipped through his fingers and vanished into the shade under the hayloft. Checking the injury, Caim saw a little seepage, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. A line of tenderness itched down the right side of his face. He fought a pang of nausea when his fingers encountered a missing chunk from his earlobe the size of his thumbnail. The skin was still raw to the touch, and there were some scratches down his cheek, but otherwise his face appeared intact. The rest of his body was bruised and battered, but he thought he’d be able to walk if he tried.
Now that he was awake, he began to remember. He had crawled from his camp, hurting and bleeding, through the snow. He didn’t know how long he’d endured, fighting off unconsciousness. Finally, he reached something resembling a road. He seemed to recall a small face peering down at him, or maybe he’d been dreaming. The next thing he knew, he was here. His gear lay in the straw a few feet away, his knives in their sheaths beside the long bundles of his sword and bow, and his satchel.
A noise rustled off to his side. Caim rolled over and gasped at a sudden spasm in his leg. He drew a knife and spun around with the blade extended. A small boy stood in the doorway. Caim let out a slow breath and lowered the weapon. The kid watched him for a moment with large brown eyes and then ran off. Good move. He’s probably off to fetch his brothers.
Caim gathered his clothes and was in the process of easing them over his wounded body when footsteps approached. He managed to pull up his pants and buckle on his suete knives before the door opened. A big man filled the doorway. He wore a simple smock and breeches of rough homespun wool. His work boots were worn and spattered with mud. He took off a wide-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his other arm.
“You mend quick,” the man said. “Didn’t expect you’d be up and walking for a couple days yet.”
Caim pulled on his shirt. “Is this your barn?”
