She felt his grief and loss as he explained how everything had fallen apart, the horror of Ravenstone, and how they had found themselves demoted and exiled. And she couldn’t help but smile as Mathos described how Tristan had fallen in love with Nim, much to his shock and the amusement of his men.
But then he started to explain about Val. And Alanna. And she wanted to vomit.
What kind of a person tortured his wife? Hung men from his walls? She had never liked Ballanor—she had feared and distrusted him—but she hadn’t realized just how bad it was. How badhewas. And he was her brother.
Mathos stopped on the path ahead of her, a shadowy shape in the darkness.
“I’m sorry, Lucilla, but there’s something else I have to tell you.” His voice was deep and quiet. Somber even. Gods. She wiped her suddenly damp palms down her legs, trying to read his face in the low light and failing.
“We think that Ballanor was responsible for the massacre at Ravenstone.”
“You think… what?” Her voice came out as a rough whisper.
“Ballanor. He was responsible for Ravenstone. He….” Mathos’s voice faded away, but she already knew.
“He killed my father?” She phrased it as a question, but it wasn’t. Not really. She had been afraid that Ballanor would see her as a threat and get rid of her. Something deep inside her had known that he had it in him. But somehow, it had never occurred to her that Ballanor would kill their father, the man who had given him life.
Mathos nodded, the movement only just visible.
Gods. She didn’t know how she felt. She’d hardly known Geraint, but he had still been her father.
He had spent her whole life ignoring her, hiding her away, criticizing everything about her on those rare occasions he bothered to remember she existed, but she had understood—she was the living embodiment of everything he had lost.
She didn’t like him, but she still felt the need for a father. The need that all children felt, however horrendously their parents behaved. And Ballanor had killed him. It was unexpectedly painful.
“Why?” She knew the word sounded strangled, and she lifted her chin, holding her composure.
Mathos took a step closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat from his body, the concern radiating out from him.
“They hated each other. Your father never trusted Ballanor, and he refused to give him any power at court. In the end, we think that Ballanor decided that if it wasn’t given to him, he would simply take it. He also wanted the war in the north to continue—he believed he could win where Geraint had failed—and victory would come with power and riches far greater than your father had ever enjoyed.”
She forced herself to ask the next question. “And Alanna? How did she fit in with… Ravenstone?”
“She never wanted war. All she wanted was to save her people. She stayed with Ballanor, despite everything he did to her, to uphold the treaty. In fact, she was also attacked at Ravenstone. She and Val fled the massacre, but they returned to the palace to defend their innocence. That was when they were both captured. Val confessed, under torture, to planning the massacre, but only because he thought his confession would save Alanna.”
“And his relationship with her maid?”
“There never was one. They claimed to be having an affair to try and save Alanna from execution.” Mathos gave her a wry look. “Actually, Keely and Tor… well, there’s something between them.”
Lucilla wrapped her arms around her belly, feeling a cold shiver work its way up her spine. “Did Dornar know all of this?”
“Absolutely.” Mathos’s reply was instant and unequivocal.
Gods. Dornar had looked her in the eye and lied to her about everything. He would have used her, manipulated her, hurt her. Just like Cerdic had. And he would have done it with a completely straight face.
What was it about her that made people treat her like this? Even her own father had hated her.
A warm hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed while his other hand cupped her cheek, his thumb under her chin, tilting her face up. “Don’t do that.”
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Whatever that was, that look on your face. None of this is your fault.”
She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him how tired she was of being treated like dirt by people who should have loved her, to ask if he could tell her what was wrong with her that they did it to her again and again. But he shifted his fingers over her lips, and she swallowed the words.
“No, Lucilla. Those men were all assholes, and Dornar is just as bad as any of them. You can’t blame yourself for the actions of people like that. If you feel responsible every time the selfish people around you do bad things, you’ll go insane. You can only be responsible for your own actions, your own mistakes, not theirs.”
Something about the look on his face, the way his eyes tipped down at the sides as a muscle jumped in his jaw, made her realize that this was personal to him. That he was sharing something that he normally kept hidden behind his jokes and mocking grins.
