“It took far longer than four moons.” Pride fills my father’s face. “Puzzle pieces were moved over many years.” His posture straightens. “But it is true that most fell into place over the past few moons—after your grandfather’s unfortunate demise.” An almost evil grin slips onto his lips.
I can’t help but wonder if my father had his father killed, and can’t help but realize that one puzzle piece that failed to properly drop was the royal marriage to unite Achotia and Khotor—the marriage between Rosomon and my grandfather.
“So, the other kings bent their knee to you? I’m impressed—but not surprised.” I’mverysurprised, in fact.
“Formerkings.” My father’s face settles into a familiar expression, his ambition and cruelty on full display. “Some of the former sovereigns willingly pledged their fealty. Those who refused were imprisoned. And We—” his tone makes it clear thatwenow meanshim“—now control all that lies on this side of the veil.”
I grip my hands more tightly behind me, hoping to hide the anxious tremor that’s been building. I want to ask about Achotia, about what’s become of Rosomon’s father and brothers, but don’t want to raise suspicions. I don’t know how much is known outside camp about Rosomon and won’t do anything to put her in more danger than she already faces.
“And what of my older brothers? I’ve seen none of them at court.”
Father shifts again and keeps his gaze away from me. “None are currently at court.”
My unease continues to rise, and I pull on every reaction-hiding skill learned in childhood, plus all that Saxon taught me about calming myself. Based on my father’s reaction, I suspect that at least some of my older brothers are dead and wonder which one is now first in the line of succession. I must tread carefully. Likely anyone who utters a dissenting word loses his head.
I shift my stance, casually putting more of my weight on one leg and folding my arms across my chest. “And what of the attire at court,” I ask, as if it’s an insignificant matter. “And the changes to the castle’s—decor.” I gesture toward the banners praising Othrix that hang behind Father’s throne, replacing the Khotori banners that were always there.
Father’s eyes flash with what looks like anger, and my chest tightens.
But then his expression turns blank. “Uniting the seven kingdoms was the will of Othrix. We could not have accomplished it without His divine intervention. As such, We are pleased to demonstrate Our thanks to Othrix.” He gestures toward the banners.
Father’s words sounded rehearsed. Even stranger, he was never religious. Yes, he kept up appearances, as did we all, but he was never a devout follower of Othrix. Not once in my life, did I see him praying alone in the chapel, or kneeling before any shrine, and he certainly never observed the holy days of deprivation—always freely partaking in food, wine and other frivolities on those days.
“Has your devotion grown?” I ask as evenly and casually as I can.
He glances side to side. Then leans forward, beckoning me closer. Mounting his dais seems disrespectful, and so I lean toward him instead of setting foot on the platform.
“The klericks proved very helpful in uniting the kingdoms,” he says.
I nod, hoping he’ll elaborate without me needing to ask more questions.
“The Head Klericks of each former kingdom greased the path for Our armies.” He closes his eyes. “In exchange, We struck certain…bargains with the klericy.” His eyes open, revealing more humanity than I’ve ever seen from my father.
He shakes his head. “Through the divine intervention of the Prime Klerick, I struck a deal with Othrix. A deal I nowquestion.” He delivers this line with the pronouns of a man, not a king, and his head hangs for a moment as I absorb the information.
Then he abruptly straightens in his chair, as if the last part of our exchange never happened. Following his lead, I step back from the dais and adjust my posture, returning my hands behind my back.
“Prince Tynan.” His entire demeanor has shifted, and the coldness has returned to his eyes. “For whatreasondid you seek an audience?”
This is my moment. I cannot fail. “I come seeking a royal pardon for Dragon Master Saxon.”
Father frowns. “Of what crimes has this man been accused?”
“He’s accused of blasphemy. Of accessing Darkness.”
“Then he must die,” Father says, as if it’s nothing.
“I know this man,” I say calmly. “Master Saxon is extremely loyal to the Light. He’s been a valuable teacher and mentor to me. I know his heart. There is not a dark bone in his body.”
Not wanting to be caught in a lie that could lead to my own execution, I thought long and hard about how I should word this appeal. I didn’t claim that Saxon never used magic. And I used an alternate interpretation of the word dark—at least in my mind. That argument may not hold up at a tribunal, but I’m skilled at debate.
“Dragon Master Saxon is a good man,” I continue. “His leadership, and his skills with dragons are vital to the Kingdom of Light.” SayingKingdom of Lightfeels strange in my mouthbut should win me points. “Saxon’s leadership is crucial to the riders, and essential to the ongoing maintenance of the veil.”
“And yet, he venturedacrossthat veil.” Father glares.
“As did I.”
Father’s glare deepens, and apprehension tightens my chest. Highlighting my involvement may hurt my cause. Especially now I suspect my father may have ordered the executions of some of my brothers. “We both had good reason to cross.”
