“As you wish, Commander.” This time, the captain did the cross-body salute. He performed a precise about-face, then marched from the room with unnecessary flair.
“As I said,” the commander continued, “if you cooperate with me, I will pass along my impressions of you to the emperor.”
“And those impressions are…?” Did Yarif really want to know?
“You’re a harmless second son who lacks the backbone to conspire against the crown.”
So, the commander wasn’t impressed. Good. “May I visit the twins now?” Mother used to say,“You’ll never get what you don’t ask for.”One more minute in this room might make Yarif say something unwise. This man would make promises he never intended to keep and happily swing the ax to sever Yarif’s head from his neck.
After several long, uncomfortable moments, the commander nodded, addressing two guards in Cormiran. “Escort him, please.” To Yarif, he said in Renvallian, “They will take you.”
“I’m not a threat!” Yarif balled his hands into fists. “And I certainly know my way around my own home.”
“Maybe it’s not you I’m worried about.”
Surrounded by enemies. Maybe the commander didn’t intend immediate harm—his soldiers were another matter.
Well, those from before hadn’t presented a problem. But then Yarif had his rapier. He took another long look at the commander before leaving, to find the commander regarding him with a curious expression.
If Yarif must die, at least he’d have a pretty executioner.
Chapter Three
Therewasn’tmuchtobe done about the cuts, bruises, and the need for a shave, but Draylon at least bathed and found clean clothes to wear, minimizing what Rufe called his uncivilized look. Let Father interview Renvallian nobles to decide what must be done. Draylon planned a more meaningful conversation. Besides, giving the nobles already in the dungeon time to contemplate their fates and imagine the worst might loosen their tongues.
His meeting with the prince left Draylon in need of a drink. A traitor. From a traitorous family.
But a beautiful traitor. Unbound, his long blond hair likely reached past his shoulders. It would be a shame for Father to put the man to death. What of the children? If Draylon had to, he’d stand up to his father. The children were innocent.
Was Yarif? No one knew better than Draylon how a king or emperor could dote on one son and barely speak to another. While Yarif showed some skill with a blade, Rufe said, he didn’t appear battle trained or to have ridden out beside his father.
Draylon would learn the truth soon enough because if he couldn’t make persuasive arguments, the emperor might still sentence Yarif to death.
For some reason, Draylon wanted the man to live.
He chose the servants’ dining area for his meeting to put those he spoke to at ease—or as at ease as they could be during interrogation—a drab, dreary place off the kitchens. A single candle sat on the table. Draylon added four more. He’d been told his current appearance would scare small children, with his wild hair, and his cuts and bruises earned in battle. No need to compound the effect with eerie lighting, like storytellers did to add drama to a rather dark tale.
Many told Draylon he managed to be dark enough on his own.
The room must have been sweltering a few weeks before the cool fall days had set in. The place might have been cozy on a cold morning, with a fire in the hearth.
Too warm a day for unnecessary fires. Renvalle’s rolling hills, working up to low mountains, were far cooler than Cormira, the capital city of the Cormiran Empire, but still far from cold yet. Draylon had spotted the snowcapped peaks of Delletina from the balcony in his room.
The snow would soon fall here.
May he be long gone by then.
The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen, making his mouth water. When had he last eaten? Were his men seen to?
His first interviewee shuffled in, wariness in her bright green eyes. Her dress might be plain brown, the attire he’d expect for a head cook, but it fit her ample figure well. Her skin was pale, as many Renvallian citizens were, especially this far north. If he stood, she’d likely come no higher than his chest.
Draylon guessed her age as midfifties, like the head cook back home. Laugh lines surrounded her eyes and mouth, an indication she might be a jovial sort. With any luck, a cheerful personality made her a confidante of the other castle staff.
“Please, sit down,” Draylon bade her, indicating the chair across from him. He’d deliberately not taken the place of honor at the head of the table. In this, he was merely another servant of His Imperial Majesty, neither above nor below any other.
Besides, folks tended to treat him differently once they discovered him to be the emperor’s younger son.
He waited to see if the cook would extend any niceties.
