“Your Highness,” Bolt said, “may I offer my condolences on the death of your mother?”
Maenelic’s expression never changed, but he did swap targets, bringing his scowl to bear on Bolt. “Why would I want them?” he spat, but he slurred his words, and random splashes of red marked the floor by his chair. “She died without passing her gift to me.” He let his gaze sweep over the bishop and his guards. “Do I merit even a single guard any longer?” He waved a hand at the nobles before him. “Look at them, dancing with as much spring in their step as always. Do they have sense enough to wonder how a dancer could die by falling? Did they fast for her death? Should I?” He laughed a bitter sound, like a saw tearing through wood, and pointed at a random nobleman of considerable girth. “I think that fellow might have missed a snack. All continues as it has since the beginning. Kings and queens are like grass.”
Bolt dipped his head but didn’t respond. “We will do everything we can to find her killer, Your Highness.”
Maenelic lurched to his feet, wavering. “You fool!” He gripped his wine glass like a club. “My place has been given to another! I don’t care if she was killed. I don’t care if you find her killer!” He cocked his arm and threw.
The goblet leapt from the prince’s hand, but Bolt snatched it out of the air, his motions almost too quick to follow. I was surprised at first that he would put his gift on such broad display before I remembered every one of these people knew him as the last Errant. They would have expected no less of Tueri Consto.
He held the goblet out to the prince with a bow. “I crave your pardon, Your Highness. You seem to have dropped your glass.”
The prince’s anger, deprived of a target, drained from him, and with a glance around the throne room, he reseated himself.
“Well, that was unfortunate,” Gehata said to Bolt. “We must remember to pray for poor Maenelic. The stress of his mother’s death weighs more heavily upon him than we supposed.” He spoke as if the prince was no longer present, and his expression never shifted as he wielded his amusement like a rapier. “It’s just as well,” he said. “Please, Errant Consto, join us.”
His gaze sharpened a fraction when Bolt made no move. “Oh, I see. You have no place to sit. Come, Prince Maenelic. Errant Consto can hardly be expected to stand for the duration of court. Where are your manners? Give the last Errant your seat.”
The prince locked gazes with Bishop Gehata, and rage mottled his face, but at last the bishop’s disdain and the collective scrutiny of the court proved to be more than he could bear. With an oath owing its origin to the barracks rather than the palace, he left the hall. The nobles parted for him, but their expressions conveyed uniform contempt. Not one face in the entire hall spared Maenelic enough compassion to even pretend a show of sympathy.
Then I understood. Maenelic’s behavior had unmasked them. In his grief, the prince had dispensed with cordial niceties and put the true nature of court on full display. He had stripped away their pretense, and that was unforgiveable.
“Well, that was amusing, if uncomfortable,” Gehata said, his voice dropping to a purr. “I will have to ensure the prince does not return to court. Perhaps some time with Aille’s forces will allow him some measure of healing.” He laughed. “Or I might permit him to watch as you give his birthright to another. Of course, to do that you’ll need to hear the petitions of those who wish to state a claim to the throne.” The bishop’s smile turned predatory. “As counselor to the throne, it will be my privilege to advise you. Please, Errant Consto”—Gehata’s voice sharpened—“sit.”
I’d seen men of all stripes kick a man who was down, both literally and figuratively, but I’d never seen anyone take as much pleasure in the act as Gehata. The bishop had just emasculated the prince in front of the entire court and had forced Bolt to take part. I’d been wrong when I thought I couldn’t hate anyone more than Duke Orlan.
The buzz of the crowd grew behind us as Bolt approached Maenelic’s seat. “They don’t seem too pleased with the prospect of you sitting there,” I said.
Bolt shook his head. “They’re not. If I had declared myself regent, I would have had the right to it until the rightful heir was found. I’ll need you to flank me.”
“And why are we doing this?” I asked. “Other than to make ourselves targets in a room full of people you’ve just disappointed.”
He almost smiled. “As the bishop said, to receive claimants to the throne. Vyne wants to know who the next king or queen is going to be. This is how we find them.” He cut his eyes toward me. “I hope. Any noble who wishes to make the claim to the gift of kings will have to introduce themselves.”
I almost stumbled. “You want me to delve them? Just in case you needed reminding, I can’t see gifts.”
We turned to face the crowd and their myriad reflections. “You won’t have to,” Bolt said. “If they hold the gift of kings, their memories will show it.”
“This soon?” Gael asked. “It took the priests weeks to verify Cailin’s son held the gift after Laidir’s passing.”
“That’s because Brod was a child. It’s different with adults.” Bolt sat in the right-hand chair while Gael and I flanked him on either side. “They know almost from the moment it comes upon them.”
I looked out across the crowd, struck again by the lack of mourning for Queen Chora and the sheer amount of naked ambition present in the room. “And what do we do when each
