The Merchant Emperor by Elizabeth Haydon Page B

paramours, both of whom he had sent forth on similarly shameful missions where they had met their hideous ends, would have required a modicum of introspection from Tristan Steward, as well as the ability to feel guilt and responsibility for his actions. Both of these traits had only been his while his first paramour, a serving woman named Prudence, was alive, and only because she had taken on the role of his conscience, loving him and insisting that he be a better man than he was by natural inclination. Any desire for self-improvement, for ethics and higher purpose had fled along with her spirit as it left the world. Now Tristan was alone again, aching with grief but feeling little remorse and no guilt whatsoever.
    Rather, what he felt was poisonous rage directed at the man who had borne Portia’s dead body back to Highmeadow.
    Tristan seized the crystal decanter again and splashed more of the honey-colored liquid into his snifter. He tossed it back; the potable was so smooth it did not burn, but the corners of his eyes stung nonetheless. He could feel the warmth race down his throat to his stomach, where it sparked the fury that was boiling there into wildfire rage. He heaved the glass into the fire, where it shattered against the back of the hearth and flashed as the alcohol hit the flames.
    Then, his anger still burning, he strode to the library’s heavy back door, threw it open, and hurried down the auxiliary staircase to the servants’ quarters.
    The enclosed sconces that lined the stairway cast long, flickering shadows on the stone walls that curved along the staircase. Even in his fury Tristan made note of the solidity of the fortress he was visiting for the first time. Highmeadow was a new stronghold, a citadel four years in construction that had been designed for defense by the best artisans and military commanders of the Cymrian Alliance, making use of the premier military knowledge of four different races. Situated in the dense forests of western Roland, in the province of Navarne but very close to the border of Bethany, his own province, at the historical site where the ancient House of Remembrance had once stood, Highmeadow was a bastion of strength in an impenetrable woodland, a conglomeration of buildings that were situated on, within, and above the earth in the very trees of the forest, with hidden defenses and barricades surrounding it for miles. This building was the only one he had been privy to thus far in his visit, a general keep meant for housing guests of state and other visitors of the Lord and Lady Cymrian, with libraries, meeting rooms, and dining halls all secured for the protection of the guests and privacy of the discourse undertaken there. Even Portia, an eavesdropper of highly refined talents, had complained that the new keep had prevented her from overhearing anything of value since the household had moved there from the old and drafty keep of Haguefort in the capital of Navarne. Since one of the main functions that Tristan had commanded of her when he sent her as a gift to the Lord and Lady was just such surveillance, he had been left with little information of value for his pains.
    At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway was dark save for light coming out from under a door halfway down on the right. The Lord Roland made his way to the door and paused outside it. A moment later he could hear soft conversation, and identified one of the voices as belonging to Gerald Owen, the longtime chamberlain of Haguefort who had served Stephen Navarne, the late duke, and his father and grandfather before him.
    The other voice was unmistakably that of Gwydion of Manosse, known to his intimates as Ashe. Tristan’s boyhood friend and long-hated rival for both power and, at least within the secrecy of Tristan’s heart, the love of a woman.
    The Lord Cymrian.
    Without so much as a respectful tap on the door, Tristan barged into the room.
    Gerald Owen and Ashe looked up in surprise. Both men were gray in