brow with a silk handkerchief, a gift from a fawning Antivan merchant who had begged him to arrange an audience, and considered the possibility of not telling the news at all. He stared into his eyes within the mirror, frowning at the fear he saw there.
No, there was really very little choice.
He found Meghren down in the stables, being fussed over by a pair of burly smiths as they strapped new armor to him. It was gold-plated and specially crafted with the face of a lion embossed into the breastplate. It had many grooves, the metal glittering everywhere it wasn’t covered by black leather, the kind of armor one could easily imagine a great king wearing, or even an emperor. Ever since Meghren had led the army at West Hill he had become practically obsessed with everything military-related. This despite many assurances from the commanders on the field that he had been nowhere near the action and mostly got to tour the carnage on the battlefield after all had been said and done.
Severan thought the armor looked impressive, befitting a great king. Naturally Meghren disagreed. He barely tolerated the smiths, constantly shrugging with discomfort and snapping at them for tying a particular strap too tightly or griping that the greaves pinched or that the gauntlets made his skin itch. Several servants hovered nearby, too frightened to make any effort to help the smiths. Indeed, the nervous aura even seemed to agitate the few horses in the stable. The beasts stomped their hooves and looked like they were about ready to kick down the doors to their berth.
He was about to enter when he noticed Mother Bronach seated on a stool against the far wall, observing the fitting. Why she was there, Severan had no idea, but she looked up and noticed him. The slightest smile played across her face.
It seemed she knew. Perhaps she had even come here to watch.
Meghren saw Mother Bronach’s expression and turned to see Severan hovering in the doorway. “Oh, it is you,” he sneered. “What is it now? I hope there is news from Gwaren. This business has gone on entirely too long.”
The mage cleared his throat, which had suddenly become rather dry. He couldn’t help but stare at the sword sheathed at Meghren’s side. Ornamental or not, if the man decided to start flailing about with it, it could do more than a little damage. “Yes,” he finally said. “There is news.”
Meghren went cold, looking at Severan with narrowed eyes, and the entire room immediately picked up on the change in temperature. The servants all but scrambled out of the stable, and both the smiths stopped affixing the armor. They backed away, confused looks on their faces.
“What are you doing!” Meghren barked at them. “Why are you stopping?”
The smiths both immediately rushed back toward their king, so quickly that they bumped into each other and then nearly knocked him off his feet. Meghren roared in rage and kicked up with his metal boots, catching the nearest smith in the nose. Blood sprayed into the air as the man flew back, slamming into the stable wall.
“Get out of here, you fools!” Meghren roared.
The other smith stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, but only for a second. Running over to his comrade, who was kneeling by the wall in shock, covering his nose with bloody hands, he helped him to his feet and the two of them ran out of the stable.
Meghren watched them go, a disgruntled expression on his face, and then finally turned back toward Severan. “I would like to hear this news,” he said, his voice low and unpleasant.
“I would like to hear it, too,” Mother Bronach chimed in. She seemed awfully pleased with herself.
Severan tried to swallow, but found his throat constricted. So instead he cleared his throat. The sound seemed very loud in the silent room, with everyone staring at him expectantly. Even the horses appeared to be watching him.
“We . . . have taken Gwaren,” he said simply.
Meghren snorted with derision. “And how is that not good news?”
Severan fingered the rolled-up parchment nervously. “It . . . is uncertain we will be able to hold it, Your Majesty. It was very difficult to take. There were . . . unexpected circumstances.” A new bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Severan prayed that Meghren did not notice it.
Thankfully, he seemed more occupied with his own annoyance. He tapped a boot on the wooden floor impatiently, his hands on his hips as he looked around the stables, perhaps in search of someone to commiserate with him. Finally his head snapped back toward Severan. “Unexpected circumstances?” he said viciously. “The remnants of those fool rebels, that’s all that were left there, you said. I sent the chevaliers and half the men that took West Hill. More than enough, you said.”
“Prince Maric is alive,” Severan said. “He was in Gwaren.” He immediately regretted it, as Meghren’s eyes went wide with rage. Even so, he said nothing immediately. He merely stared at Severan, and the mage began to consider if he should retreat.
“Alive? How?” Mother Bronach asked. She looked truly shocked, Severan noted. So she had not heard that part, at least. He supposed he should take some small satisfaction from that fact. It would provide him a modicum of comfort should he be inadvertently skewered.
“Yes,” Meghren snarled. “How is he alive?
Severan frowned at him severely. “I will remind His Majesty that I said we had not found the prince’s body at West Hill!” He slammed his fist down on a nearby wooden post, startling one of the horses. “How many times did I protest that we needed to be certain before you made your announcements? From all my reports, Prince Maric appeared in Gwaren just prior to the attack. The entire town thinks he rose from the dead! Raised up by the Maker!”
It was a gamble. Severan maintained his angry stare, the sweat continuing to pour down his brow, and after a moment Meghren sighed and pouted. “But there were so many burned corpses! You said any of them could be the boy!”
“I said they
Meghren turned toward Mother Bronach, throwing up his hands. “Bah! This is your doing, woman!”
