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Joran approaches after Varrus leaves the hall.
“He wanted you angry,” he says quietly.
“He remains disappointed.”
“Not entirely. The court heard his question.”
“The court already knew.”
“They heard the king allow it.”
That distinction matters.
King Rython could have stopped Varrus before the attack upon my succession. He chose to hear the argument reach its conclusion.
A royal attendant approaches. His silver gorget bears the Vatoris crest.
“Lord Rhysandir, His Majesty requests your presence in the private council chamber.”
“Now?”
The attendant bows. “Immediately.”
Joran looks toward the chamber doors.
“Wait with the guards,” I tell him.
He inclines his head.
I follow the attendant through a narrow passage behind the throne. Royal wards press against my skin as I cross the threshold. The magic tests my identity, rank, and intent before permitting me to enter.
King Rython stands beside a tall window overlooking Orthani.
The capital spreads below us in ordered districts divided by caste and purpose. Khuzuth houses occupy the inner ring. Miou compounds and military yards fill the next. K’sheng markets crowd the southern quarter. Human laborers move through every district while possessing none.
The attendant closes the door.
“You handled Varrus well,” the king says.
“He offered little challenge.”
“He offered a question you have avoided.”
“I have not avoided marriage.”
Rython turns. His white hair is bound at the nape, leaving the severe lines of his face exposed.
“You have declined seven proposed alliances.”
“Each carried unacceptable costs.”
“One demanded mining rights.”
“To the richest neptherium seam under the ridge.”
“One required a military guarantee.”
“For a border dispute created by the bride’s father.”
