The entire court was in her thrall. The weapons she used shifted imperceptibly, so that as soon as you felt you were beginning to resist her, you would realise you were capitulating in some other way. If you were a man, she would start with a look of undecided interest, as though you were somebody different, but she was not sure what to make of you. Impress me. When, inevitably, you made a clumsy joke, she would meet it with a laugh; a noise Bellamus thought he had only heard her make in earnest a few times. It sounded like a magpie, or the rattle of dice in a wooden cup. Her attention was entirely yours. Where she proceeded from there depended on how self-assured you seemed. For the confident: more encouragement, more laughter; then perhaps a prickly comment. You’re not there yet. Keep trying. For the fragile: they were hers already. Gentle teasing, stretching their relationship until, ultimately, they thought little of her requests.
If you were a woman, her methods were more relentless. She would shift between charm, humour and callous mistreatment, until you were persuaded of the futility of resistance. To argue against her was as exhausting as it was fruitless, and, if you did not, then she was good company. Capitulate and she could be a generous mistress. Just do not forget your place.
There were a score of minor houses in the Black Kingdom and perhaps three major ones. Roper’s own house, Jormunrekur, had faded in recent years despite being the lineage from which the Black Lord was drawn. The consummate leader elevates based on merit, which Kynortas had done in order not to show favouritism to his own kin. It had resulted in House Lothbrok, of which Uvoren was the foremost son, superseding the Jormunrekur in wealth and influence. Now Roper needed to break Uvoren, for which he would require support from the third major house: Vidarr.
Though it was necessary, entering into negotiations with House Vidarr was a daunting prospect. They were led by Tekoa Urielson; Pryce’s uncle and legate of the Skiritai Legion. Roper had never met him, but knew he was a man of unbending will. Roper remembered words that Kynortas had once spoken of him: “Tekoa would be a fine servant if he didn’t have such monstrous self-regard.”
When Roper had asked Pryce how he could best win over his uncle, the lictor had replied: “Entertain him.”
These thoughts circumnavigated Roper’s head as Helmec rapped on the door of Tekoa’s house. Roper had tried summoning him to his own quarters in the Central Keep but his messenger had returned shaken, delivering the news that if Roper wished to see Tekoa, he would have to go and meet where Tekoa could have a comfortable chair and goblet of birch wine.
The door before them was opened by one of Tekoa’s household warriors, a full legionary with the crest of House Vidarr: a monstrous serpent armoured in chain mail, destroying an even larger holly tree. “The Black Lord, Roper Kynortasson of House Jormunrekur, has come for an audience with Tekoa Urielson,” announced Helmec. The legionary smirked and stepped aside with an air that said: You’re welcome to him.
Roper, Helmec and Gray entered, finding themselves in a granite reception room. Chairs of split yew lined the walls and a fire stirred in a raised hearth. This house was larger than most within the walls of the Hindrunn. Tekoa was a wealthy man but a true subject of the Black Kingdom and had furnished it austerely. The walls were bare but for lamp brackets and a single silk tapestry of cream and black, showing the same tree and chain-mail snake that the legionary bore on his breast. As with all Anakim art it had no colour; only outlines. The stone floor was barely visible beneath an assortment of deerskins, though Roper could see a couple of carved footprints in the bare patches. Now he looked, Roper could see some handprints carved into the wall as well, including one very small and very low down that must have belonged to a child.
The legionary who had shown them in asked them to wait in the chamber whilst he went to fetch Tekoa. He departed through an oaken door, next to which was a low table. On this sat a spherical object supported in a wooden cradle. Roper moved towards it, reaching out a hand to examine it.
“Don’t touch it!” cried a voice behind him.
Roper’s hand recoiled and he snapped around. Standing behind him, evidently having emerged from one of the rooms that came off this chamber, was a woman. She was extremely tall—almost Roper’s own height—and had eyes of a ghostly pale green and extremely long, gossamer-fine blonde hair. Her skin was so fair as to be almost translucent; Roper could see the veins at her temples. And she was painfully thin, her white linen shift looking as if it contributed considerably to keeping her upright.
“My lady?” said Roper, noting that her hair was tied back in the manner of a married woman with children; a full subject of the Black Kingdom. “Why not?”
“You mustn’t touch it!” she insisted. A servant girl, appearing almost ludicrously short by comparison, emerged from the room to stand next to the woman and stared at Roper accusingly, as though he had disturbed her mistress deliberately. The tall woman strode forward, stopping uncomfortably close to Roper and almost staring right through him with her ghostly eyes. “Who are you?”
Roper took a half-step backwards before answering. “Roper Kynortasson. I have come for an audience with Legate Tekoa.”
“You want Keturah? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” demanded the woman.
“I just want to talk to the legate,” insisted Roper.
“Keturah is precious to us. You must not hurt her!”
“I’m not planning to hurt anyone,” said Roper. “Please, lady, I am just here to speak to Legate Tekoa.”
All at once, the tall woman seemed to
