He hesitated, hand on the iron handle of the council room door for the second time that evening. Ser Allyn had barely laid eyes on him before scowling and waving him back to change his grass-stained pants and tunic, which was plagued with feathers despite attempts to brush it. One more glance will not hurt. Janto hurried to the mirror hung on a column near the western archway. Luckily, he was alone, the servants in the kitchen or throne room preparing for tonight’s feast. Janto did not wish to appear vain.
Comforting Serra had done nothing to calm the flush on his face from running. Otherwise, he was passable. Regal even, with his mother’s chain hanging around his neck. She would be pleased, but Janto suspected she already knew the gold-flecked stone brought out the color in his eyes when she gave it to him two weeks ago, in case she did not make it home before the Murat. Queen Lexamy had been at Lady Xantas’s annual raccoon festival, an event Janto had been excused from ever since throwing up the seventh course all over the banquet table at six years old. The queen knew better than to offend Lady Xantas by declining herself, even if it meant missing her son’s farewell. He would return home in a few weeks; Gella Xantas’s grudge-holding endured for decades.
“Son, it is time to go in.” King Albrecht waited at the council room door, his voice startling Janto away from his reflection.
“Of course, Father.”
Inside, a chorus of “Long live Albrecht!” greeted them. The king stifled it with a raised hand. The room was barely large enough to fit the heavy table made from the green-veined kratomwood of the Ertion Mountains. Ten chairs in all for the five provinces’ lieges, the Ravens’ chief, the army commander, the king and his servant, and a guest. There were no windows, only stifling air that held the smell of stale liquor from meals and councils past. Prying ears were not likely to find satisfaction here.
Two chairs at the table sat unclaimed. Serra’s aunt, the Lady Marji who served as Meditlan’s liege in Serra’s absence, should have filled one. A king’s messenger had probably stopped her on the road with news of Agler’s death, turning her back to prepare her people for it. Lord Rufalyn was also absent—Elston was far, and making the trip twice in a little more than a month was a sacrifice. He and his wife would be at the wedding.
“Gentlemen and Lady Farami,” his father began. “I’ve invited my son to attend our council as he will soon leave for the Murat.”
“Here, here!” All the councilors shouted, except for Lady Gransyl Farami, liege of Neville, who clapped her hands instead. “Good for you, Prince!”
“Janto will return to us an accomplished man, and thus, a taste of his future duties as king is appropriate.” His father took his seat.
Lord Xantas stood, buried in the brown, black, and yellow skins that augmented his considerable girth. “Pardon me, King Albrecht”—he raised his elbows and nearly toppled his wine goblet with his stomach—“but you don’t mean to scare the young man away from the throne, do you? The kingdom’s business is a rather dry topic for someone Janto’s age—well, for someone of any age!” He winked at Janto, an ever-present smile on his lips.
“I suppose you would have me fill his head with nonsense of a king’s life?” The king drummed his fingers on the table. “Perhaps tell him his duties will be mingling with beautiful women all day, of whom he will have his pick when he rules?”
“He can have my woman—anything to get her off my hands!” Lord Xantas bellowed, and the group laughed. Lady Gella was no one’s idea of the perfect woman, though Janto knew Lord Xantas would be inconsolable to lose her, no matter his protests.
Captain Wolxas, the army commander, raised his glass. “No one would dream of taking your”—he coughed—“beautiful”—he coughed again—“wife from you, Lord Cino. Not even if you paid us in bear skins!”
“Especially not if you paid us in bear skins.” Quiet Lord Sydley of Wasyla shocked the group with the ending joke, and the laughter rang louder. He was older than the rest of the men, and a cane of burnished almond wood leaned against his chair.
“Fair enough.” Xantas wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “I shall be forced to keep her for now. But if she wants to throw a festival of the grouse next year, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”
Janto laughed with the others but stopped when his father directed him to take the seat on his left. Then the king opened the council by placing a dark wooden box on the table, its narrow, pinkish-red streaks exposing it as rosewood. He opened its lid to reveal a mass of white-gray ashes. “Lord Agler Gavenstone is dead. This is all that remains of him.”
The air in the room thickened with tension as though a giant squeezed its walls together. Janto found himself fascinated by the sigil carved into the box’s lid: a snake, hood flared and teeth bared.
His father continued, “I would like him to be buried at the Mount.”
A few of the councilors gasped at the announcement, as did Janto. He had not thought his father would grant Agler such consideration. In truth, he did not think he should.
Ser Allyn dropped his quill. “Pardon, my king, but you have entrusted me to advise you on all matters as I see fit. It is my place to disagree.” The spice from his hot licorice tea tickled Janto’s nose hairs from two seats down. “Lord Agler was a traitor to the throne. A traitor to you.”
Ser Allyn frowned, dark eyebrows making a “V” on his forehead. Janto could remember him laughing only once, when his daughter, Porcia, had convinced him to let her dance before the queen. She had been five then, dressed in a turquoise frock and holding a ribbon studded with gray feathers high above her head as she twirled. Janto had watched the haphazard lines it formed in the air until the ribbon fell straight down—following a dizzy Porcia who collapsed on her rear end, legs straight up in the air. Ser Allyn had chuckled along with the rest of the court, but his cheeks reddened. It happened nearly a decade ago, and Janto had never seen Porcia at the castle again.
“He cannot be buried with honor.” Ser Allyn took a sip. “To do so would set a dangerous precedent for others who might seek their fortunes against you. They should expect nothing but retribution for such an act, not a burial among kings and nobles. The people will not accept it.”
Captain Wolxas nodded, and Lord Xantas raised his goblet in agreement.
“Listen well to me, councilors and friends.” King Albrecht’s voice was firm. “Lord Gavenstone was a traitor once but no longer. He renounced his acts and made penance with the Order once he realized the gravity of his betrayal and the limits of his ego. He joined the Ravensmen to protect Lansera, the opposite desire of his former acts.”
King Albrecht turned to the Ravens’ head, seated a few places down. “Is that not true, Tirlon?”
“It is, my king.” Ser Tirlon Swalus wore a black tunic nearly the same color as the swarthy brown hair gracing his shoulders. A cape lined with black feathers rested over his chair’s back. The Ravens watched Medua from the Perch, their headquarters in the Ertion Mountains. The two realms had maintained an uneasy truce for most of Janto’s life except for a few “scuffles” every year. Scuffles that now brought wooden boxes filled with human ashes rather than addled minds.
Ser Swalus’s voice was gravelly but even. “Agler joined our clan willingly. If anything, he was too determined to make up for his crimes. In hindsight, I should not have let him leave the nest so soon.”
The group balked at that assumption, and Wolxas made to disagree. King Albrecht’s fist slammed on the table. “Silence! This is not a discussion. Agler will be buried at the Mount three days hence and will receive the funeral procession that is his due as a liege of Lansera. Ser Allyn, you will see the announcement is made throughout the realm and messengers are sent to Gavenstone immediately to ask Lady Marji to return.”
“Yes, my king.” He kept his eyes downcast.
“Good.” The king gave his attention to the Raven. “Ser Swalus, please send word to Ser Werbose right away, by whatever means are your fastest. The funeral will be held as soon as the rest of Adler’s effects are returned from the Perch.”
“Certainly.” He exited the room.
“I expect the rest of you to attend the funeral, all who do not have pressing duties at home.” The king’s tone softened minutely. “As king of Lansera, it is my duty to ensure any man who has paid for his crimes is forgiven and his rights restored. What sort of message would it send to our people to do anything less? Or to have their future queen be remembered as the sister of a traitor?” He placed a hand on Janto’s shoulder, the focus of his words reminding Janto of what was most important in all this. Not justice, not revenge, but Serra. It would always be Serra to him.
“The Lanserim forgive their debtors,” his father finished. “It is the Meduans who punish them.”
The council room was quiet but for Xantas’s nails clicking against his goblet. King Albrecht reached for the box, but the candlelight caught on something within it, and Janto remembered the ring mentioned in the letter.
“May I?”
His father assented. “It is Serra’s now.”
Grapevines formed a crest around the ring’s large peridot stone. Janto wiped the powdery, greasy residue from it with his napkin.
King Albrecht leaned back against his seat. “Now gentlemen and gentlewoman, let me hear your news. Xantas, please begin.”
Lord Xantas grumbled but refilled his goblet and recounted the numbers of furs, crates of salted bear meat, and other goods produced in Ertion in the last year. Ser Allyn wrote furiously, struggling to keep pace with the figures as he dipped his quill in the thrushberry ink again and again. Lord Sydley went next, relating the record crop brought in from Wasyla’s fruit trees. Janto found his thoughts drifting from persimmon yields to Serra faster than Lord Xantas could reach for another glass.
He did not have the first idea how to help her cope with Agler’s death. She was devastated, her manner changed. The Serra he knew was always composed, and today she had seemed … rash. After her parents died, she had been the perfect lady, greeting each mourner with lifted elbows and a “May Madel’s hand guide you.” She had been only eight then, but even now, when they were alone together, Serra maintained a semblance of propriety. “My prince,” she would tease, “you wouldn’t disgrace your princess, would you?” Then she’d peck his cheek and firmly hold his hands in hers, keeping them from straying. He had stolen a kiss or two or many in the garden and safe from servants’ eyes, but she would never let him get carried away. If only he could carry her away from her sorrow.
Lady Farami, a slender woman nearly as dark of skin as his mother from many hours spent in the fields, went next. She insisted on visiting every farm or herd in Neville at least once a year and helping with the work, an extraordinary undertaking that her people appreciated for the kinship it fostered. She reported that a few farms near the Rasselerian border had lost their vegetable crops due to mold and yellowing from the heavy rains. Janto wondered how the Gavenstone grapevines had weathered the season. He hoped Lady Marji did not have to deal with a bad crop in addition to informing her people of Agler’s death. Janto did not envy her position. Most Meditlans had remained loyal to the throne during Agler’s rebellion and did not bear his living relatives great love afterward, though Serra, Marji, and her husband, Jehos, had been cleared of all wrongdoing. The Gavenstone ruling line was not as secure as it used to be, something Janto knew the king hoped would be strengthened by his marriage to Serra. King Dever Albrecht believed nobility were held in their places by Madel’s hand. Only She should remove them, not the doubts of Her people.
“—twenty new recruits from the marshlands, my liege.” Captain Wolxas’s voice interrupted Janto’s thoughts. Twenty from Rasseleria? That was a lot. The marshfolk had always been loyal to the throne, but they kept to themselves in their villages, groupings of huts on dry patches in the wetlands of Lake Ashra. They made their livings growing rice or sifting through the mucky water for antiquities, mostly pieces of colored glass rumored to be relics from the Battle of the Gods, if one believed that sort of thing. Janto had never had reason to.
Someone knocked on the door, surprising them all—the yearly council was never to be disturbed. Janto could not imagine what would warrant an interruption. The councilors fell silent as his father opened the door. Marta, one of the throne room stewards, lifted her skirts as she stepped over the doorframe. She had a head of sleek coal hair.
“Pardon, my lords.” She clasped her hands and raised her elbows.
The king did not hide his irritation. “What is the news, Marta? Is the castle on fire? Have Meduans crossed the mountains?”
“No, of course not.” Her cheeks colored. “I did not wish to disturb you, but the queen said you would want to know right away that a Brother had arrived.”
“To see you off, no doubt, Janto.” Lord Sydley’s broad smile revealed his dimples. “Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of the stag! The blessing of the Brothers would be a great sign of fortune for your Murat.” It would, Janto knew, but the Brother could not have come here for that. They were the highest ranked members of the Order, above the ryn and rynnas who led activities at each town’s temple. The Brothers were Madel’s hand made flesh—one coming to advise the king had to be important. No, the Brother could not be here for him.
The king addressed Marta with gentleness. “Forgive my tone. I did not expect such a guest. Let him know I will meet with him as soon I have finished here. It will not be much longer.”
Marta nodded. A hum of speculation arose as she closed the door.
“Do you think he could be here for me, truly?” Janto whispered to his father when he sat down.
The king did not answer but raised a hand for silence. “My lords and lady, it seems we must cut this council short. Any other news or concerns can be shared with me in private over the next few days.”
Ser Allyn had already reached for an extra sheet of parchment. “Let me know if you need the king’s time, and I will arrange a meeting.”
“This council is dismissed.” King Albrecht gestured to Janto, and they left the room together, leaving those inside to their thoughts about the Brother … and Agler’s funeral.
Janto spoke after a few paces. “Father?”
“Yes, son?” The king did not stop walking.
Burying Agler at the Mount may not have been the best decision, but Janto thought he knew why his father had made it. “Thank you. Thank you for doing that for Serra.”
The king did stop then. “I did not do it for Serra.” He met Janto’s gaze. “I did it for Lansera. If you don’t see that, then I fear you have much left to learn.”
The king continued down the hall alone. Janto watched him go, dumbstruck, until his father’s gray head disappeared through a northerly entrance to the courtyard.