shining era. I certainly hope our long-standing friendship and business relationship will dissuade either side from betraying the other. There is so much potential for everyone to prosper greatly, to make old enemies suffer, and to gain the power that we, whose ancestors ruled these lands long before the Cymrians arrived, should have had all along.”
“Agreed,” said Dranth.
“Good. When will you and your company leave for Canrif?”
“Tomorrow, after your Weighing and coronation.”
“Perfect. Send word to me when you have accomplished your task. And be careful of the child, should you find it—if it is less than a year in age, bring its mother along as well. Do not defile her until I have determined whether she is nursing or not.”
“Of course not.” Dranth’s eyes darkened in displeasure at the affront.
“Please do not take offense, Dranth. If, as I surmise, the child’s mother is the Lady Cymrian, you will have quite a fight on your hands. Her husband destroyed an entire corhort of my soldiers single-handedly that had come in disguise to Haguefort, I’m told. She is said to be formidable in her own right, and beautiful enough to melt even your granite heart.”
“I have no heart, Majesty. The only thing that beats within my chest is the rage that feeds my blood oath.”
“Indeed, but you still have eyes, and a tarse between your legs, I assume. You may need to employ a paralytic to incapacitate her; she will doubtless fight like a demon to protect her child.”
“I am ready.”
Talquist nodded. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to retire for the night. Tomorrow is destined to be a great day, but most such days begin early. Good night.”
Dranth bowed, his wraithlike body as straight as an arrow, then took his leave of the library.
The eyes of the massive statue focused on his back, boring holes in it that he could feel even after he closed the door behind him.
9
HIGHMEADOW, ROLAND
No matter how many glasses of Canderian brandy he poured down his gullet, the pain in Tristan Steward’s ribs would not recede. His lungs were clear enough to breathe in the smoky air of the library to which he had fled a few hours earlier, but each breath was labored, causing his sides to hurt with the effort of taking in air. With a bitter hiss of liquid through clenched teeth, he bolted back another snifter’s contents and closed his blue eyes, then ran his fingers meaninglessly through his sweat-soaked auburn hair, hot and brittle from sitting endlessly before the library’s roaring hearth.
Steward, the Lord Roland and prince of Bethany, was trying and failing to blot from his mind the vision of the Lord Cymrian returning to the main keep of Highmeadow in the early light of foredawn, carrying in his arms the body of a woman Tristan knew well.
Perhaps not well , he thought, reconsidering the moment. But certainly intimately .
From the moment she had come to his notice in his own keep in the province of Bethany, the dead chambermaid, whose name was Portia, had become impossible for him to resist. Dark of hair and fair of face, with a wicked sparkle in her large, doe-like eyes, she had displayed none of the respectful deference that was universally present in those of the serving class, except when she was in public. In the privacy of his bedchamber, to which she had almost immediately gravitated, she was insolent and playful, commanding and dominating him sexually in a manner that he was both loath to allow and gleeful to embrace. Her ruthless passion had captivated him in ways that no other bed partner had ever inspired, and her willingness to participate without hesitation or compunction in whatever nefarious scheme he felt like concocting had made him trust her more than any person he had ever confided in save one.
It appalled him to know that other trusted person had met a similar fate to the one that had apparently befallen Portia.
But to recognize his own hand in the demise of his favorite
“Agreed,” said Dranth.
“Good. When will you and your company leave for Canrif?”
“Tomorrow, after your Weighing and coronation.”
“Perfect. Send word to me when you have accomplished your task. And be careful of the child, should you find it—if it is less than a year in age, bring its mother along as well. Do not defile her until I have determined whether she is nursing or not.”
“Of course not.” Dranth’s eyes darkened in displeasure at the affront.
“Please do not take offense, Dranth. If, as I surmise, the child’s mother is the Lady Cymrian, you will have quite a fight on your hands. Her husband destroyed an entire corhort of my soldiers single-handedly that had come in disguise to Haguefort, I’m told. She is said to be formidable in her own right, and beautiful enough to melt even your granite heart.”
“I have no heart, Majesty. The only thing that beats within my chest is the rage that feeds my blood oath.”
“Indeed, but you still have eyes, and a tarse between your legs, I assume. You may need to employ a paralytic to incapacitate her; she will doubtless fight like a demon to protect her child.”
“I am ready.”
Talquist nodded. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to retire for the night. Tomorrow is destined to be a great day, but most such days begin early. Good night.”
Dranth bowed, his wraithlike body as straight as an arrow, then took his leave of the library.
The eyes of the massive statue focused on his back, boring holes in it that he could feel even after he closed the door behind him.
9
HIGHMEADOW, ROLAND
No matter how many glasses of Canderian brandy he poured down his gullet, the pain in Tristan Steward’s ribs would not recede. His lungs were clear enough to breathe in the smoky air of the library to which he had fled a few hours earlier, but each breath was labored, causing his sides to hurt with the effort of taking in air. With a bitter hiss of liquid through clenched teeth, he bolted back another snifter’s contents and closed his blue eyes, then ran his fingers meaninglessly through his sweat-soaked auburn hair, hot and brittle from sitting endlessly before the library’s roaring hearth.
Steward, the Lord Roland and prince of Bethany, was trying and failing to blot from his mind the vision of the Lord Cymrian returning to the main keep of Highmeadow in the early light of foredawn, carrying in his arms the body of a woman Tristan knew well.
Perhaps not well , he thought, reconsidering the moment. But certainly intimately .
From the moment she had come to his notice in his own keep in the province of Bethany, the dead chambermaid, whose name was Portia, had become impossible for him to resist. Dark of hair and fair of face, with a wicked sparkle in her large, doe-like eyes, she had displayed none of the respectful deference that was universally present in those of the serving class, except when she was in public. In the privacy of his bedchamber, to which she had almost immediately gravitated, she was insolent and playful, commanding and dominating him sexually in a manner that he was both loath to allow and gleeful to embrace. Her ruthless passion had captivated him in ways that no other bed partner had ever inspired, and her willingness to participate without hesitation or compunction in whatever nefarious scheme he felt like concocting had made him trust her more than any person he had ever confided in save one.
It appalled him to know that other trusted person had met a similar fate to the one that had apparently befallen Portia.
But to recognize his own hand in the demise of his favorite
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