Instead, he gave Evandaine a dark gray vest, which the young man shrugged on and fastened over his chest. He hadn’t spoken a word since they left the temple of the war god Hema, where Evandaine, as before every battle, refused to make a vow to desecrate all of Sennalaith and lay waste to their villages, violate their women, and murder their infants. His mother, standing beside him with the cup of testimony gripped so tightly her fingers went white at the tips, had looked on him with disgust.
“If I do not survive,” Tiernan continued, breathless, “you must take the hydra pup and flee.”
“Why?” Evandaine asked. He and his father shared the same gentle brogue—melodic, lilting, slightly guttural.
“I believe that when I die, your mother will have you killed.”
This surprised Evandaine, but it did not shock him. He had seen too much of war and death to be easily shocked.
“You humiliated her in front of the people when you refused to drink the cup and take the vow.”
“You know my feelings on this, Father.”
Tiernan did not reply as he inspected a fine dragon bone shotfire, running his hand along the white barrel.
“It’s of no consequence,” Evandaine said, trying to quiet his mounting anxiety. “If she hasn't struck before, why today?”
Tiernan thrust the shotfire into his son’s hands and gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Do not underestimate her. She is a necromancer …"
“That’s superstition, and you know it," Evandaine scoffed. "Dark botanical magic is not necromancy. She's playing into the people's fears, and it's working. Don't fall for her lies."
“Stop blaspheming our gods, Daine! The people will revolt against you.”
“It’s not as though they haven’t tried,” Evandaine replied dryly.
Tiernan regarded his son sorrowfully. The boy was only twenty, tall, slender, strong with lean muscle. He had wavy chestnut hair, somber green eyes, and the shadow of childhood freckles still dancing across his nose, fading with age. He was beautiful—too beautiful for either Tiernan or Marwenna to deserve. And he was too gentle as well.
His gentleness did not anger Tiernan as it angered his wife.Instead, it broke his heart.
“Your mother thinks you weak. The people think you weak. She will order your death, or she will kill you herself so she canchoose a more brutal successor. Trust me, no one in Ashkendor will see you upon the throne.”
“Well, she never was a warm person, mymother,” Evandaine said bitterly. He had long suspected that the woman who claimed to be his mother yet showed him not one ounce of affection was lying. He'd spent many peaceful summers with one of his father's mistresses on the Ashkendoric wildlands, and though she never explicitly said that he was her child, Evandaine was no fool.
“There is no loyalty in the hearts of men … or women, in this instance," Tiernan went on. "Do not trust anyone. Do not let them into your heart. Keep to yourself, and love dragons. Dragons will not betray you.”
A cold sweat broke out on Evandaine's brow. Where would he go? Not to the wildlands; his mother would look there. Perhaps to his half-brother in Allagesh, but he was still in school and might not have the power to help. The world was large and terrible, and Evandaine had traveled little.
Surely, his father was being over-cautious. Anxious. There was no reason he should die tonight over any other night.
“Why take the hydra pup?” he asked.
Tiernan ran his hand through his silvering hair. “Your mother will send Raska after you. The hydra’s magic will ward her off and protect you.”
Evandaine nodded. His face was impassive, but his stomach churned. If his father meant to frighten him, he had succeeded.
“If you’re killed, can’t Mother revive you? You said she’s succeeded in learning necromancy. You’re her husband. Doesn’t she love you?”
Tiernan smiled bitterly. “Your mother loves no one and nothing but power. She will have Raska bring me here, but she will not revive me. I’ve not been faithful to her and she hates me though she’s had her own share of lovers. Be careful tonight, Evandaine.Be cunning. Watch for Cadmus’ witch child. Cadmus will have her try to kill you, so you must kill her first. You must be made of flint, your mind sharp as steel. Leave after my mourning rite. Do you understand?”
Evandaine’s fingers tingled, and his face felt warm, the rest of his body cold. His throat was painfully dry, so he only nodded.
Evandaine both loved his father and was disgusted by him. Tiernan had not refused the vow or abstained from the cruelty of Ashkendoric ways. And yet, he was still his father, and he was kind to Evandaine.
The bugle blew, summoning them to muster their dragons. Tiernan squeezed his son’s shoulder—an extravagant gesture of affection—and ducked out of the tent.
The second his father disappeared through the tent flap, Evandaine dropped onto a chest of shotfires and breathed deep, panicked breaths.
He had to get out of this place, away from the brutality woven into the culture, the pantheon of cruel gods, the temples with their prostitutes, and the winehouses filled with children.
