Page 160 of Given to the Black King

The crack runs from the top of the arm to the carved base. Torgan bit through part of it. His claws did the rest over the weeks before the bond.

The masons wanted to replace the stone.

He refused.

I wanted the repair visible.

We compromised on replacing the temporary underbrace with black iron braces and a line of poured gold. The old gouges remain visible above it.

“Set it,” Torgan says.

The mason reaches for his hammer.

Torgan catches his wrist.

“Not there.”

The poor man freezes.

“The old gouges stay.”

“I would not touch them, Majesty.”

“You were about to.”

“I was moving the cloth.”

Torgan releases him.

The mason moves the cloth from somewhere else.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Through the bond, Torgan feels the laugh I am holding.

His eyes narrow.

“Something amusing?”

“No.”

The bond exposes me.

He has become offended by this feature only when it works against him.

The great doors open.

Perr enters carrying a leather case and trying not to run.

He has remained in the black country as Serath’s acting treaty clerk. The title is temporary. His rooms are not. The kitchens know how he takes his tea. He is not leaving.

“The Vessel account,” he says. “First spring quarter.”

I leave the mason to survive Torgan and meet Perr at the table.

The report is forty-three pages.

Of course it is.