Dietan guides me to the far end of the table and pulls out my chair. After I’m settled, he takes the chair to my right, closest to the head of the table.
I feel awkward, sitting at a table in the king’s court without the king present, but the butler doesn’t seem bothered by it. He gestures to servants who come out of nowhere, like they’ve melted from the walls to start filling our plates. They set so much food in front of us that the decadence makes my stomach churn. I think of the desperate faces of the starving villagers we saw on our travels, like in Alba.
The butler, satisfied with the presentation, leaves. The servants move quickly, keeping their gazes down. I try to catch one of their eyes, but no one dares look up. They seem skittish, and my nerves remain on edge, every instinct telling me to get the hell out of here.
Dietan appears completely calm and begins to eat, so I follow suit, though my hands shake and the decadent meal tastes like ash in my mouth. My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely swallow.
Then the doors open again, and a familiar face walks in. “Good morning,” the emissary says, his voice echoing around the nearly empty room. He pours each of us a crystal goblet full of water. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s safe. Then I notice the emissary takes a long sip of water from the same jug as he walks around to the head of the table. I glance at Dietan, who nods, and so I take a sip as well.
The emissary flops into the king’s throne, settling in comfortably and cradling his goblet of water close to his chest, grinning. When no guards make any movement to stop him, I feel like I’ve been struck over the head with my own skillet. My ears ring. The emissary— He is actually—
Dietan raises his goblet to the emissary. “Hello again, uncle.”
I goggle at him.Uncle?
“Hello, nephew. You’re not as dumb as reported after all.”
“Ha.” Dietan smirks. “It’s good to be underestimated, Uncle Namreth.”
Uncle Namreth. I’ve heard that name before. Of course! It’s the name of King Elgar of Alarice’s younger brother—Dietan’s granduncle. This is Prince Namreth, the one who disappeared, banished for some reason or other.
“I suppose Osian suits you better,” Dietan says. “More ominous. Who’d fear someone calledNamreth?” He says the name like it’s an insult.
Dietan and Namreth stare at each other with open hostility, the tension radiating from both of them so thick, I’m certain they’re going to come to blows. I eye the knife at my place setting, but before I’m forced to do something stupid, Namreth’s shoulders relax. He leans against the back of the golden throne wearing a smug smirk. Dietan sits back in his seat as well, and I let out a discreet sigh.
And now I know why the emissary looks familiar. I can see the family resemblance. There are clear echoes of Dietan’s face in his uncle’s.
“The years have been kind to you, uncle,” Dietan says. “Extremely kind. What is your secret?”
“Take a guess,” Namreth says.
“The Whisting,” Dietan answers.
I hold my breath. He stopped the sandstorm. Does that mean the Whisting can stop time as well?
Namreth arches an eyebrow. “Indeed.”
So, the Whisting keeps him young, slowing down the aging process. Is that what will happen to Dietan if he doesn’t get the Rings out of his body? He’ll remain young forever, while I grow old?
My gaze lingers on Dietan’s face in profile. He looks like he’s been hewn from stone. I suppose that’s why we’re here after all—because Osian has knowledge of the Rings of Fate and can maybe help Dietan remove them. But why didn’t he tell me he suspected Osian was his uncle? I stare at my plate, my already-meager appetite completely gone.What else has Dietan kept from me?
“Come now, nephew. Why so grim? Let’s celebrate your engagement like family!” Namreth laughs.
Dietan doesn’t.
“Cheers,” Namreth says, raising his goblet. When neither of us toast, he doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs and takes another sip.
“You were once a prince of Alarice, and now you are King of the Waste,” Dietan says.
“I had no choice,” Namreth answers. “When my brother passed me over in the line of succession to name you, his worthless grandson, heir to Alarice, I had to create my own destiny.”
“You were banished for learning forbidden magic,” Dietan says. “Grandfather didn’t trust you with the kingdom.”
“My brother is a coward. We could have used the Rings to make Alarice even stronger—to reshape the world—but what did he do with them? He gave them to your father, his son-in-law, to keep the kingdoms at peace. He entirely squandered such a precious resource, such an opportunity.” His voice is level, as if he’s discussing the weather, but I can tell by the way he grips the arms of the golden throne that his emotions are a storm ready to erupt.
“The Whisting is a gift to the land. It’s never been about greed,” Dietan says.
Namreth looks displeased to be interrupted. His lips curl into a sneer, and he leans forward. “Your mind is limited by your mortality. Such power must be wielded by those who are willing to use it.”
