She stood by the lone pine tree on the cliff, using it as a shield against the wind, and looked out over the land.
Below her, Harthill lay in a half circle, snuggled in against the face of the mountain, in a series of rings. The outer wall and the houses built against it, formed the lowest ring, and each street was a little higher as the city worked its way up to the palace. She gazed out at the wall, hazy in the dying light. She was safe in the palace—for a while, for as long as the king lived—but she was not free.
Out past the wall was the freedom she longed for. No, not past the wall. Sober was past the wall. And Rebuke. And her family. None of them were free. She looked at the ridge of sharp-toothed peaks behind the valley. Maybe on the other side of that range. Lord Carrull had said he smuggled slaves to other states. Montphilo, he'd mentioned. A place where overlords and lowborns were equals.
Repentance sighed and tucked the thought of freedom away. She needed to be content where she was—content with a hateful little boy saying she was no different from a yak—and she needed to make the king content with her. Because in two years, Comfort would be coming up to the slave market.
She headed back. A chill wind snatched snow from the ground and blew it against her back and down her neck. Shivering, she picked up her pace. If she hurried she could have a bath before dinner. She would present herself as the perfect companion for the king.
Two hours later she entered the dining room, shyly.
The king was already there. He looked up from some parchment he was reading and nodded his approval. "Ah, I see you wear your punishment well," he said.
She raised an eyebrow as the manservant seated her.
"The work has done you some good, I think," the king continued. "Your face is peaceful. Dare I hope you are a little more mature tonight than you were last night?"
"King Fawlin, I'm sorry for my outburst last night. And I want to thank you for being lenient with me."
"Well, in the end, by the grace of Providence, it worked out for the best. If it hadn't been for your outburst, I might not have learned of my nephew's scheme for training an army of slaves and attacking Westwold in ten years' time. But I did learn, thank Providence."
He smiled. "But I do hope you learn some wisdom soon, young Repentance. You've been here but two days and you've thoroughly worn me out."
The serving woman scooped a plump cheeper onto her dish.
Repentance cast a sideways glance at the king. "I am surprised to hear you say that I'm wearing you out, your highness. You are looking quite lively to me."
He laughed. "It's true. It's true. I'm finding that I enjoy our encounters."
He set his fork down and laughed some more. "I'm quite sure that many people have cursed me behind my back, but never has anyone called me names to my face. Not even my nephew."
Her face burned. She didn't see anything funny about it.
He looked at her face and let his laughter taper off. "It's just this, Repentance. You don't know how to lie, do you? You always speak what's on your mind. And even if you kept your tongue in line, your face would give you away. You would never make a good statesman, but at least I'll always know where you stand. I must tell you, it's not altogether unpleasant to have someone speak honestly to me." He took a bite of his cheeper.
"Oh," she said. "So shall I—"
"Don't you dare!" He pointed his fork at her. "Never speak disrespectfully to me again."
After dinner he walked with her to her room. He brought along a bottle of wine. They spent the evening before her fire, reading.
At ten o'clock, he rose and approached her chair. "I must get to my bath and bed." He bent down and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight."
He left before she could snap her slack jaw shut.
She touched the place where he'd kissed her.
She couldn't understand him. But praise Providence, the king seemed bent on being kind to her and she was not going to tempt him to change his mind. No more outbursts.
She was still by the fire, reading and listening to the king splashing in his bath, when her door flew open. The prince glared at her.
She darted a look at the bathing room.
The prince followed her gaze.
"He can't help you," he said quietly. "If I wanted to kill you right now, I could. And there wouldn't be a thing he could do about it."
She stared at him, trying to swallow her terror.
"I warn you. He's not going to live much longer."
"You're going to ... kill him?"
"Not if I can achieve my goals in a less drastic manner. The people love the good king. If I killed him I would have a rebellion on my hands. And why should I bother to kill him when he allows me to run the kingdom as I see fit?"
She couldn't believe he would speak so easily about killing his own uncle.
"But think about this, little concubine. If the king keeps interfering with me, I will be forced to rethink the risks involved in assassinating him. So you might try to encourage him to rest, to go the hot springs, to go back to sleep. I will be your master for many more years than he will be. Maybe you ought to rethink where your loyalty lies."
"I don't know why you tell me this. What influence do I have over the king?"
"Apparently enough influence to make him deny me the right to take
