Aldric fought the urge to point out that none of these announcements yet answered his question. Why was he here? He had yet to see or hear anything at all that required his input. He could be sparring with his Sons. He could be out exercising his destrier, Mourn, to ensure the big beast didn’t die of boredom in the royal stables.
He could be in the city, trying to forget that come tomorrow, he would be a married man.
Looking around the room, Seraphina reassured all save for him, “Wewillreclaim Arlund. Wewilldrive the Arathian horde from our shores. And while Sir Easome’s son, Lord Devon, commands the navy, our ground troops will be led by none other than”—she gestured toward him with a vague wave of her hand—“the feared Crow of Drakmor himself.”
All eyes immediately turned his way, except for hers.
Aldric squinted at his future wife and bit back a growl. What was she going on about? He was not her Lord Constable. He wasnot even an Elmorian. Sir Easome should be the one commanding her army.
But before he could point that out, Easome himself clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a little shake. “It will be an honor to serve under the command of the famed Crow.”
Coreto’s lips pulled into a mocking smile. “Yes. No doubt the Arathians will be quaking in their boots the moment they see the Crow’s banner approaching.” The duke’s eyebrow raised. “But then again, you and your company of mutts do not fly a banner, do you?”
The smug quality of the other man’s tone lured Aldric into rumbling against his better judgment, “Surely you understand the wisdom of not projecting your movements on the battlefield.” He tilted his head. “But then again, you have never fought in a war, have you?”
The duke’s expression cooled by several degrees. For the briefest moment, he could have almost sworn he saw Seraphina smile just a little.
But then the moment passed.
“Are there any other matters that need to be addressed before this council?” his kirei asked, drawing to a close a meeting that could very well have been a missive.
The attack weasel drawled, “Not unless we want to discuss the disturbing reports I’m getting out of Drakmor about some particularly monstrous warlord the Kunishi are calling the Bonesinger, who destroys whole villages in a single night and allegedlycommands the dead.” She shrugged. “Apparently, he’s now raiding along the Drakmori border.”
Sir Easome barked out a laugh. “Command the dead?”
The Bonesinger again. Aldric shot a look toward the Lothmeeran woman, where she slouched in her chair. She ignored him just as readily as her mistress did.
It shouldn’t have surprised him to hear that his brother hadn’t secured the Drakmor-Kuni border in his absence. Did Blackrun truly stand empty? For all Edmund’s talk about him being replaceable, it seemed like he hadn’t been replaced at all. Either that, or his replacement was just as useless as his brother.
And now it seemed like this…Bonesinger—the same warlord who had terrified the Kunishi refugees the night Beck died—was assaulting the border directly.
Aldric gritted his teeth. He should be there, not here. That was where he was most needed.Home. Protecting the border villages as he had always done. But no. He had to be here. Playing politics with his future wife.
That was the agreement. That was the deal he had struck.
Duke Percival grunted. “We have more than enough problems of our own at present without entertaining Kunishi superstitions and fancies. Surely King Edmund can handle a single warlord on his own.”
Hardly.
His kirei bowed her head. “Then we will adjourn. Father Perero, would you please lead us in a prayer?”
Aldric dutifully lowered his head in turn, merely because old habits die slow deaths. But he didn’t bother closing his eyes or paying attention to whatever it was the Shepherd was saying. Prayer was pointless.
What use was there in calling out to a god who never listened?
The prayer concluded. Chair legs scraped against the floor as the other councilors rose to their feet, preparing to leave. Or to stay behind and mingle with the queen.
A cold nose shoved itself into his hand, drawing him out of his thoughts. He flinched before he recognized the Lord Chancellor’s white beast. A varhound, it was supposedly called.
A white warg was more like it.
Merely thinking of wargs was enough to make his heart twinge all over again with the loss of his former second-in-command and best friend, Beck, who died at the fangs of one such accursed beast.
But he swiftly smothered his grief and gave the monstrous canine a pat while watching Seraphina out of the corner of his eye, tracking the way she rose to her feet and painted a false smile on her lips. Ever graceful despite her evident exhaustion.
Duke Percival’s voice sounded from just behind him. “Rogue seems to like you.”
Aldric’s attention snapped back to the dog. “Well, that would make one of you.”
