“Like the stone bridge over the creek, or the kirk at Echr Mûn.” Greyv smirked. “Or the bank on Old Blue where I took that midwife from Cohness.”
Skyre laughed. He had heard all about Greyv’s escapades when they were younger. It was Skyre’s way of learning the world—the parts his books couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t leave Righnach’Dúir, but through Greyv’s words, he’d gone everywhere. They’d lie in the grass and the older boy would tell him stories. Skyre would close his eyes and imagine skidding his knees on the backroads of Rhosyn where Greyv grew up, and hunting grouse in the weald. He learned the names of a hundred people he’d never met, and knew everything about each of them. He was never jealous. Not really. But sometimes when Greyv came back, he would look a bit more learned.
Skyre wondered if he looked that way, too.
“You’ll have to come for dinner,” said Greyv. “You’re twenty years overdue.”
“Another time,” said Skyre. “It’ll kill your poor mother to host an entourage.”
Greyv grinned, the dimples on his cheeks sinking deep. “Dinnae worry. She kens where to hide the wine.”
The door to the hall opened, and three familiar figures strode in. Rask led at the front, followed by Jor and, with a slower gait, Nacht.
“Back to business?” Greyv muttered.
Skyre sighed.
“You’re late,” Rask snapped. “We were to meet on the hour. You havenae moved a hair.”
“Were we to meet?” Greyv wondered.
Skyre only vaguely recalled the council meeting had been scheduled. “Now that you mention it…”
Rask fumed. “We’re to talk of the road. Stop messing around and come have a look.”
“Tedious old man, can’t I have a moment to revel?”
“You’ve done nothingbutrevel. Now, there’s work to be done!”
The celebration died down as the crowd turned to watch, and Skyre raised a brow.
“I’ll invite you not to accost me in front of my men.” It was a jest, but also a warning.
Rask pinked with rage. “Then come down and do yourjob.”
Frustrated, Skyre got to his feet, his eyes darting briefly towards Jor. Being in the prince’s presence was like displaying his back bare. He said, “Fine then. We’ll convene in my war room.”
The war chamber was blue with thickening evening. The scene was familiar, and Skyre not nearly drunk enough not to prickle at its memory. They gathered around the map. Everyone looked unhappy to be there, except Greyv, who had never enjoyed getting angry.
Nacht hadn’t said a word since the Reaffirmation, not in acceptance, and certainly not in thanks. Skyre was annoyed. He had three months on the road with his hero, and thought if he asked him for training, the man might fall on his own sword.
Skyre looked away.
“We’ll start in the south and end in the north. No one wants to spend more time than they must in Dunn Kennigh,” said the king.
“The place is full of ghosts,” grumbled Greyv.
“The southlanders may be unpleasant, but the venture is no less significant,” said Jor. “It will be to the Vaich’s benefit to appease them.”
“If for no other reason than to avoid being cursed,” said Greyv.
Skyre snickered.
“It’s no laughing matter,” barked Rask. “A smart man keeps his enemies close. You’d best be wary or see anotherBlack Revolt.”
Skyre scoffed. “That was a lifetime ago.”
“A lifetime? You stand in the presence of its living memory! My father fought against the Dunn Laird, and his brother died on the grey fields. I would not see younger men sent off to kinslay.”
