I couldn’t care less. I did not need his approval. I needed only his respect, and I had it. The rest could rot.
They fell silent when they saw me. I approached, and Alaric stepped back a pace.
“You asked for me,” I said to Lionel.
Lionel handed me a letter. “Read,” he said, his voice dark.
I opened it. The seal of the Earl of Perlgate lay torn in two. I frowned. I expected a declaration of war at this point.
Which it was.
My dear Lionel,
Has it not been too long since you’ve hidden behind your castle walls while our beloved kingdom spits blood into its waters? It grieves me deeply to see innocent souls drowning in despair. The people whisper in fear of unjust arrest. Markets close. Famine rises.
And yet no word of comfort or truth comes from the throne.
Rumor fills the silence. And silence, as you know, is the language of guilt.
I write not as your enemy, but as a loyal servant of the realm. We have played this game for years, Lionel, and still you retreat into your tower while your magisters play gods with common lives.
The people still believe—and who can really blame them?—that this plague did not crawl from the hells, but from the chambers of your magi.
If it is false, then show proof. Restore the realm’s faith.
If it is true, then may the gods forgive you, for the people will not.
I have always stood for the voice of the streets. The forgotten, the hungry, the betrayed. They call for leadership. They call for truth. Because whentheir king grows deaf, someone else will listen. And when the people find a voice, Lionel, they rarely give it back.
For the sake of the crown you wear, step forward and show them their faith in you was not misplaced. Do it now, or history will raise a new ruler in your stead.
And heads will roll.
With deepest concern and unwavering loyalty,
Dereck Thorne
Earl of Perlgate
“When did you receive this?” I asked, handing the letter back to Lionel.
His eyes were flat and somber. “A page brought it only moments ago. I had Alaric summoned at once.”
This was a threat, plain and proper. Dereck Thorne had been courteous enough to sign his handiwork with a flourish.
“What’s the status on the gutters?” I asked Alaric without pretense.
Alaric straightened, took a breath like a man bracing for foul wind. “Thorne slipped into Befest last week. He’s been whispering in the alleys, stoking them with grievances. Two magi were assaulted three nights ago, accused of corrupting the cures at the apothecary.”
If I had killed a man for every accusation like this shouted across the markets, Vanhaui would have been a graveyard two winters ago.
“What of the Duchess of Bretannia? Why did she release him?” I demanded.
The idea that Dereck Thorne, a man who’d bled Bretannia dry and sold promises of freedom for coin to fund his war, could still strut free made bile rise in my throat.
And freedom from what? The Breath of Death?
Wehad done that.
