The air was thick and musty, and Tristan would swear he could smell the faint sweetness of perfume in the heated air. He ignored it and Grendel as he lowered himself to his knees before his prince.
Not his prince; his king.
Gods.
The luxurious room, the jewels glittering at Grendel’s wrists, the gleam of the silver goblet in Ballanor’s hand, the musty heat, everything conflicted with the bitter horror that filled him.
It was a struggle to get the words out. To explain what had happened, his appalling shame. How the king had died on his watch. Not two feet away. And he kept his eyes lowered, watching the dance of firelight over the rugs and furs that warmed the floor.
The new king said nothing, only continued to sit, one leg flung over the arm of the chair, as Tristan’s report trailed to a close.
There was only one thing left to say. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his scales harden, taking strength from his inner beast. Then he gritted his teeth and informed the new king of his suspicions about Princess Alanna.
And finally, Ballanor responded. Shockingly loud in the oppressive quiet. He laughed.
King Ballanor’s eyes glittered as he pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to stand before Tristan, uncaring that his robe hung loose.
Tristan stayed on his knees, eyes on the carpet, as Ballanor plucked one of the Verturian arrows from a low table beside the fire, its unique markings and black fletching offering silent condemnation.
“We realized the truth immediately,” Ballanor admitted in a dangerous voice, his words falling heavily into the airless room. “After all, who else sent the missive to Queen Moireach with the details of the meeting place? Princess Alanna knew exactly where we were going and when we would be there. And who stood to gain as much as her? With the king dead, the Verturian princess hopes to leave us leaderless. Vulnerable to her clans sweeping south.”
Ballanor put the arrow back onto the table with a loud click. “Deceit is in their blood, those northern bitches. We’ve known it for a hundred and fifty years—ever since they murdered Princess Mildritha barely a month after she produced an heir. It’s exactly why we never should have agreed to end this war. Why I fought against this ludicrous marriage.”
Tristan kept quiet—he knew this story. Six generations before, a young Brythorian princess had married a Verturian prince in a political attempt to tie the two kingdoms into one great nation. When she had died shortly after giving birth to a son, the Brythorian royal family had accused Verturia of murder. The feud had escalated year upon year since then, finally culminating in the brutal northern campaign. The war that Geraint had waged, unsuccessfully, for so many years.
Grendel’s lip twitched. “You should never have been forced to marry. Brythorian blood runs in their northern veins, however diluted. You are the King of Brythoria… and by extension, Verturia.”
The king crossed his arms and gave the Lord Chancellor a slow look. “They’ll be grateful for our rule. Our firm hand.”
“Our guidance on running their mines,” Grendel added almost too low to hear, but Ballanor ignored him as he continued, “They think they’ve weakened us, but they’re about to learn that my father was the weak one. He couldn’t finish this, but I can. Starting with that bitch, Alanna.”
Tristan couldn’t agree more; Alanna was the poison they had to purge. “We should send out a squad to arrest—”
King Ballanor cut him off, his eyes flicking toward Grendel with a darkly satisfied look. “You needn’t trouble yourself; she’s already in custody. The Black Guards were deployed as soon as your messenger finished his report. They have her.”
Tristan wiped a tired hand down his dirt-streaked face. Good. That was good.
He would have liked to have arrested her himself. But the cavalry had her already. It would have to be enough.
She deserved to hang. Deserved whatever agonizing punishment Ballanor devised. And by the grim look on the new king’s face, it would be agonizing.
Tristan rocked back onto his heels and got up slowly, a thousand years older than he had been that morning.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He gritted his teeth and tried to find the right words to ask after his friend. “And, ah, Captain Lanval?”
“Her personal guard?”
Tristan nodded, his head aching in the cloying heat.
Ballanor tapped his fingers on his lips, his eyes narrowed. He looked over at Grendel, a silent communication passing between them. “Captain Lanval has become increasingly unreliable. He has put the wishes of the princess before his orders on more than one occasion. We realize now just how bad it had become—his loyalty has shifted to Verturia.”
“No!” The word burst out before Tristan’s exhausted mind could stop it, but he dipped his head immediately at the flare of rage in his king’s eyes. “Please accept my humble apology, Your Majesty, I just couldn’t imagine….”
He left the sentence unfinished. Was it that impossible to imagine?
Val had been with Alanna, hurrying her away a minute before the trap sprang closed. Almost as if he had seen some kind of signal. Or knew what was coming beforehand. And Alanna couldn’t have arranged the massacre alone. She needed a veteran. Someone with strategic military experience.
Val had even whistled to the Hawks, ensuring that Tristan would look away from the king, just for a second.
