“So who are these enemies?”
The historian gave a little shrug before answering. “Finding out is your task. This is your test. It looked as though the throne was to be yours by birthright but you’re going to have to earn it. Let us see if there’s enough talent in you to topple Uvoren.” Her tone was soothing, but her gaze unsettled Roper. “If there is, you will be the most deserving Black Lord for centuries, because you’ll need everything you’ve got. This will take all you can muster, and I doubt even that will be enough. All your charm, all your strategy, all your luck. He is a mighty warrior and the greatest warriors can fight in any theatre.” By her side, Jokul had finally stopped twirling the coin and slapped it flat upon the ancient oak table.
So let us begin, thought Roper. “He is a mighty warrior and one with many times my experience, who knows infinitely more than I about this ‘theatre.’ This is not an even contest, but I will make it one. Where do I start?”
Jokul, seemingly more reluctant to offer help, stayed silent. Again, it was the historian who answered Roper. “With a guardsman named Gray Konrathson,” she said. “He was Uvoren’s greatest competition for Captain of the Guard and, had sense prevailed, he would have won the contest. He has no great house, it is true, and holds little formal power. But he is Uvoren’s most vocal opponent and is highly respected. Win Gray and you will have secured two valuable allies.”
“Two?”
“Gray’s protégé: the lictor named Pryce Rubenson.”
“Pryce?” said Roper blankly. He had committed the name and the face to memory in this very room. “He’s a member of Uvoren’s war council. And he doesn’t seem interested in helping me.”
“I doubt he is,” agreed the historian, with a heave of her brow. “But he sits on Uvoren’s war council because he is the most admired man in the Black Kingdom, so Uvoren wants him on his side. People fawn for that man’s approval in numbers that Uvoren can only dream of. And Pryce listens to just one man. So win Gray. That is where you start.”
Roper ran his fingers over the stone arm rests. “There can be only one conclusion to this,” he said.
“Civil war,” finished the historian.
“At a time when we face invasion. My father declared it the greatest evil a nation can succumb to. And it has happened on my watch …” Roper turned his head to stare bleakly into the fire.
“This is your father’s fault,” said the woman. Her unfaltering presence reminded Roper of Kynortas. “You have been left in a poor position. That is why we are helping. Uvoren has made it clear that he would allow this country to burn to the ground in order to occupy that seat beneath you.” She indicated the Stone Throne. “So you need allies. Public allies especially.”
“Marriage?” asked Roper.
“Marriage,” she said, nodding slightly. “Work out with whom.” She stood and Roper was astonished to discover that Jokul was already on his feet behind her. The pale man’s presence was so faint that Roper had not noticed him rise. Roper struggled up to join them and it was Jokul who spoke next.
“Your most immediate concern is a man whom you can trust to defend you. Uvoren has seen us meet; you are in more danger now than ever before. Do you know a warrior who may help?”
Roper thought hard. “Perhaps.”
Jokul nodded. “Make him your man. Uvoren has informants everywhere.” He folded a fraction at the waist and turned for the door, leaving the historian still standing by Roper.
“Do not disappoint me, lord,” she said. “I suspect we will need you.” She turned to follow Jokul, who was holding the door for her. As she passed through it, Jokul turned back towards Roper, one hand resting on the handle.
“You were, of course, correct, lord. Stability would indeed be improved by your death. And one way or another we will need firm leadership in the times to come. Do what you must, my lord. Or the Kryptea will do what they must.”
4The Severed Head
Queen Aramilla processed down an aisle of trees, a gaggle of courtiers trotting behind her and the king in front, restraining a pair of hounds. Copper leaves strewed the filthy path, which bisected a royal forest. Aramilla did not care for the hunting for which this forest had been preserved. Her sport this day would be with her retinue. The elaborately frocked and painted women who followed her were engaged in a constant struggle to adapt to her wildly varying fashion. On the last occasion they had walked here, the weather dry and mild, Aramilla had appeared in the most outlandishly extravagant piece she had been able to lay her hands on; bristling with so many pearls that she resembled a hail-cloud and fairly rattled as she walked. She had declared to her pragmatically dressed ladies-in-waiting that wherever they were, their standards must never drop. Now, to her great satisfaction, all had attended this muddy march absurdly overdressed, flinching away like sheep from the mud that speckled their costly skirts. Aramilla had reverted to darker and more practical garb, and threw amused glances over her shoulder at those who trotted unhappily in her wake. By her side was the only other woman in on the joke: a dark-haired favourite of hers enfolded in a dusky cloak much more appropriate to the day.
“Some fun, Maria?”
“Of course, Majesty,” said the dark-haired woman.
Aramilla reached out and grasped a low branch that overhung the path, dragging it with her for a moment before releasing it, allowing it to jerk back into position. The leaves shivered and displaced the droplets they carried over the two women who followed behind, dousing them in a freezing shower.
There was a silence.
Aramilla looked back to see
