Gael leaned forward to kiss me, the brush of her lips warm and soft against mine. “If I recall correctly, Lord Dura,” she said with an arch of her brows, “I told you not to be boring. You’ve succeeded admirably.” She tapped her lips with a finger. “In fact, I see I’ll have to exercise some caution about my instructions in the future. You’re such an enthusiast.”
Before I could respond, she signaled the guard at the door and we entered the throne room, the brazen-throated call of the chamberlain announcing our presence. The collected monarchs of the continent and the nobles of Collum turned from their private amusements to applaud.
Gael left my side before I could stop her. “Where are you going?”
She looked back at me over her shoulder. “Tradition dictates that we mingle before our vows, ostensibly so that those married women in attendance may give me advice and the men may counsel you.”
I nearly asked what type of advice, but the slightest curl of her smile warned me and made my question moot. “I hate this place,” I muttered.
Bolt and Rory were at my side, appearing as though they’d been spun out of air. “I can’t blame you,” Bolt said. He wore his Errant’s medallion on his chest, but hadn’t bothered to clean the tarnish from it.
I commented on that.
“If I polished it every time it got a little dirty, there wouldn’t be anything left.”
We progressed through the throne room, and for once I didn’t have to suffer the insults or jibes from the nobles of Collum as I made my way without destination. The throne and the regent’s seat next to it were empty. Cailin and Brod were somewhere within the throng on the floor.
Yet my fellow nobles managed to disperse as I approached. No one seemed overly anxious to engage me in conversation until I came upon Rymark where he stood with Timbriend. “I don’t understand,” he said, pointing to me. “You think the mathematicum will someday be advanced enough to predict the behavior of someone like him? The man’s a study in chaos.”
She nodded. “Perhaps not in our lifetimes or even several after, but the fight at the Darkwater opened new fields of study we never dreamed of before.”
I’d begun to stammer my greetings when a voice I’d come to despise intruded.
“Ah, Lord Dura,” the Duke of Orlan said as he stepped forward on my right. “I see that you’ve managed to impress the king of Owmead with your particular brand of charm.”
King Rymark turned to the duke, a man two hands taller and more physically imposing than any in attendance except the guards. “Who is this?”
I began to bow to both of them—a habit of survival that had been ruthlessly instilled in me upon my elevation to the nobility—but Rymark’s furious glare stopped me. I straightened. “Your Majesty, this is His Grace, Duke Orlan, the most powerful noble in Collum after Prince Brod and the regent.”
Duke Orlan managed to bow in acknowledgment rather than obeisance.
King Rymark, despite his stature, conveyed the impression that he had to look down at Orlan in order to see him. “Ah, a duke. I have quite a few of those.” He offered nothing more, just continued to stare at Orlan until the duke, his smile turning sickly, stepped away.
Rymark stepped close enough for me to touch my forehead to his. “You are Eldest,” he hissed. “You will bow and scrape to no one.” If possible, he managed to inch closer. “Hear me in this, Eldest. The balance of power in the north is as precarious as it ever has been. If the heads of the church see that you can be cowed by a puffed-up piece of conceit like Duke Orlan, they will assume they can put you in their cloak pocket and tell you what to do. I didn’t sacrifice a quarter of my men just so the church could tell me how to run my kingdom.”
His tone could have tanned an ox hide.
“You make peace sound like war, Your Majesty.”
He snorted his contempt. “Peace is war, Eldest. Every boundary and trade negotiation is an attack and counterattack. I have no intention of having to put men back in the field because you lack the will to use the power in your hands.”
I let my surprise show. “You don’t wish to fight, Your Majesty?”
“I’ve had my fill of fighting, Eldest.” He pointed around the throne room at the other members of the Vigil. “The first rule of war is to know and train your forces.”
My forces. Mine. I looked out across the throne room, searching for reassurance. I found it at the back, where Wag and Modrie sat in repose, watching. Modrie’s gaze, filled with budding intelligence, swept over the throng, and I thanked Aer for the miracle of the Fayits’ unexpected gift. We would have to find trainers for their pups when they had them, but the forest would be guarded once more.
To one side, Toria Deel and Fess stood close in quiet conversation. He still wore his vigilance like a guard, and I made a note to speak with him about surrendering his physical gift and ending the conflict between duties. Across the room Lelwin stood in the light, ill at ease, but unveiled. King Rymark wasn’t the only one who’d had his fill of bloodshed, it seemed. Near her, Mirren watched the crowd while appearing to be part of it, her temperament for observation apparent. I would have to resume her training soon, a laughable thought. Perhaps I could delegate that task to Toria Deel and Custos.
Yet the difficulty of those tasks paled in comparison to another. I turned toward the rear of the throne room to a young man and woman, hardly more than children, who stood close enough to touch and spoke in hushed tones, oblivious to all else around them—even
