Delnamal was hard-pressed to say which of his half-siblings he hated the most. Alysoon was a harpy of a woman who had never shown any sign of knowing her place, and he couldn’t be in her presence for more than a handful of minutes without wanting to stuff a gag in her mouth. But despite her delusions of grandeur, she was just an ordinary noblewoman, the widow of a minor lordling whose only possible appeal had been his fortune. Tynthanal was a different story.
If there were any justice in the world, the man who had been crown prince for the first six years of his life would have retired to genteel obscurity when he was declared illegitimate. It was hardly rare for kings to have illegitimate sons scattered around, and though those sons—the ones who were acknowledged and had mothers of consequence, at least—enjoyed a certain level of prestige, they were rarely so steadfastly in the public eye as Tynthanal Rai-Brynna. And never were they so gifted with unfair advantages.
At thirty-five years old, Tynthanal had become the youngest man ever to attain the rank of lieutenant commander at the Citadel, the heart and soul of Aaltah’s military. Now at thirty-nine years old, it was widely believed that he would eventually be named the lord commander and take a seat on the royal council. Every night, Delnamal prayed for the health and stamina of the current commander. He was the most disloyal of sons for even allowing the thought to enter his head, but if the current commander could outlast the current king, then it would be Delnamal’s privilege and duty to name the next commander. And he would rather name his horse to the post than his half-brother.
As a lieutenant commander in a time of peace, Tynthanal should have spent most of his days behind a desk, with occasional forays out to inspect his troops and remind them of his existence. Any self-respecting officer of his age should possess an expanding middle and a retreating hairline, but no, not Tynthanal. The bastard was as lean and well-muscled as any twenty-year-old, and not only did he possess a full head of raven locks, there was not a strand of gray to be found. Delnamal was eight years younger and already had streaks of gray in his thinning brown hair. Not to mention the paunch that had defied his every attempt to lose it. His valet had just this morning suggested it was time to consider putting some discreet stays under his doublet, but Delnamal would be damned before he’d resort to wearing women’s undergarments, no matter how well-hidden—or how commonly used at court—they might be.
When Delnamal and his men passed through the front gates of the Citadel, he was instantly impressed by how well the ancient military complex had held up to the flood waters. The last time Delnamal had set foot inside, there had been any number of small wooden outbuildings within the complex, and it looked as if all of those had been swept away. But the stone walls appeared none the worse for wear save for the occasional water stain, and while there was certainly still repair work being done, the soldiers appeared to have for the most part resumed at least some of their normal routine. There were marksmen taking target practice with their longbows and crossbows on one side of the entrance, and on the other, men were standing in orderly circles to watch one another spar while a trainer bellowed critiques of each man’s performance.
Delnamal only noticed how tightly his fists had closed on the reins when his horse tossed its head and started doing its annoying, side-stepping dance for the thousandth time that day. And he was tired enough from the agonizingly long day on horseback that he didn’t immediately recognize what had caused his whole body to clench. Until he glanced around at his men to make sure no one was laughing at his horsemanship and found they were all watching one of those sparring circles with rapt attention.
Delnamal gritted his teeth and held back a curse. Of course his preening ass of a half-brother would arrange to be showing off his skills in one of those sparring circles when Delnamal and his men arrived. There was no doubt they had been seen long before they reached the gates, and Tynthanal would welcome any excuse to make himself feel superior to the man who would be king.
The air was crisp with the bite of autumn, but the chill had not discouraged Tynthanal from removing his jacket and shirt. His nut-brown skin gleamed with sweat in the sunlight, and every muscle in his back, chest, and arms stood out in sharp contrast, dancing lithely with his every move. His sparring partner was half a head taller, at least a decade younger, and every bit as chiseled. A man in his prime, who moved with the practiced ease of an expert swordsman. Someone who by all rights should make easy work of Delnamal’s middle-aged half-brother.
The other sparring circles were breaking up as men began to notice their lieutenant commander putting on a show. Men murmured and nodded approval, gathering around, making a wider circle so that more of them could see. Tynthanal was grinning broadly, eyes glowing with a combination of focus and pleasure as he danced and parried a couple of blows from his opponent’s sword. Delnamal himself was as unskilled a swordsman as he was a rider, but sparring had been a routine part of his education as a prince, and he knew from way too much personal experience how much it hurt to be hit with those sparring swords despite their blunted edges.
Circling each other, making the occasional exploratory jab, the two men traded insults and taunts, although the smiles on both their faces revealed that the insults had no teeth. Delnamal was sorely tempted to spur his horse forward and break into the circle, interrupting the show he was sure was being put on entirely for his benefit. If he weren’t worried that his horse would refuse him, he might have given in to his urges.
Tynthanal surged forward, swinging his sword as if it weighed no more than a teacup and slipping under his opponent’s guard. At the last second, with almost superhuman reflexes, Tynthanal slowed his swing so that when his blade hit his opponent’s ribs, the force was enough to knock the larger man to the ground but not so hard as to break any bones.
The gathered soldiers burst into cheers, shouting congratulations to the winner and a combination of encouragement and jeers to the loser. Delnamal felt blood rising in his face as he noticed the smiles and nods of approval among his own men. And though he immediately hated himself for it, he dreamed of the day the king would die and leave his bastard son unprotected.
Tynthanal offered his vanquished foe a hand up, a picture of charming sportsmanship. Delnamal’s lip curled in distaste as his half-brother retrieved his shirt and jacket, covering his gleaming chest. It was, of course, ridiculous for Delnamal to be jealous. Tynthanal had enviably good looks, was disgustingly skilled with the sword, and had tested as an Adept—the highest possible magical rank—though he had chosen a life at the Citadel rather than the Academy. But for all those advantages, he was still a bastard who owned no land and made his home in a military barracks. Even if he became the lord commander—a rare honor for a bastard—he would always be Delnamal’s social and political inferior. And when he became king, Delnamal would have the power to make his half-brother’s life a living hell.
Fully clothed once more, looking barely winded after his efforts, Tynthanal commanded his men to resume their training as he crossed the field toward Delnamal and his entourage. Simple politeness would have Delnamal dismount to greet his brother. However, even if Delnamal were inclined to be polite, he had never in his life spent so many hours on horseback. He wasn’t certain his legs would hold him if he dismounted, and he was certain getting back on the horse afterward would be an epic struggle and a source of amusement for all who witnessed it.
“Greetings, brother!” Tynthanal called as he approached, smiling broadly as if delighted to see him.
Delnamal ground his teeth at the informal address. If the king’s bastard had any respect, he’d have addressed Delnamal as Your Highness, as was appropriate. Even his own wife and mother addressed him as Your Highness in front of others. But Tynthanal, damn him, never tired of rubbing Delnamal’s face in their unfortunate blood tie.
Delnamal forced a grimace of a smile, knowing that if he rebuked Tynthanal’s informal address, he would look both petty and pretentious. “You’re getting old and slow, brother. Your opponent almost had you.”
Internally, Delnamal cursed himself for the feeble insult. No one who’d seen that performance could accuse Tynthanal of being either old or slow, nor had he come close to losing. And yet somehow when he was in Tynthanal’s presence, Delnamal never seemed able to control his own tongue. The need to put the bastard in his place was so strong that he had to speak out, even knowing he was making himself look like an idiot.
“Perhaps you’d care to school me, little brother?” Tynthanal asked pleasantly. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he took hold of the horse’s bridle—presumably to hold the animal still while Delnamal dismounted. “I’m sure after a grueling inspection tour you would be happy for the opportunity to stretch your legs.”
Delnamal would have loved to kick the smirk off his half-brother’s face. Clearly the bastard knew exactly why Delnamal had chosen not to dismount. And of course the thought of Delnamal stepping into a sparring circle was ridiculous. Delnamal hadn’t handled any but a ceremonial sword since he’d turned seventeen and finally escaped the tyranny of his tutors.
“I’ve no time for horseplay,” Delnamal snapped, fully aware that his brother had merely stepped into the opening he himself had made. “I’m here to inspect the Citadel and wish to return to the palace before dark. Let us get on with it. Where is the lord commander?”
Tynthanal made a regretful face, but there was still plenty of good humor sparkling in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He did not know that you were coming, so he left at noon to deliver a full damage report to the palace. But I can take you on a tour of inspection if you’d like to view the damage yourself.”
Delnamal could feel the heat of blood in his cheeks and knew it was creating a visible flush, but there was nothing he could do to hold it back. “I sent a flier this morning!” he snapped, but it was a lie. With the risers out, the lord commander had been excused from attending the daily meetings of the royal council, and it had never occurred to Delnamal that the man would undertake the long journey on horseback to deliver a report in person.
Tynthanal shrugged. “Apparently it did not arrive, or I’m sure the lord commander would have been here to greet you.”
The heat in Delnamal’s cheeks increased. Every word that left his mouth did further damage. It was certainly possible for fliers to be fatally damaged in transit, but the likelihood of that happening on the short flight from the palace to the Citadel was less than slim. Everyone saw the lie for what it was.
Delnamal was not a stupid man, but something about his half-brother caused his mind and his mouth to malfunction. If he didn’t know better, he would swear Tynthanal had invented some kind of spell to turn his half-brother’s brain to mush. Perhaps he’d developed his magical skills more than he’d let on. But of course that supposition was ridiculous. Delnamal was of only Medial rank in magic, but he’d had enough education to know what magic was capable of doing and what it wasn’t. Mind control was not possible.
If the lord commander was already presenting his report at the palace, then there was absolutely no reason for Delnamal to perform the tedious tour of inspection himself. He was not disappointed to be spared the inconvenience, but he could not bear to let Tynthanal show off his swordsmanship, humiliate him, and then all but call him a liar in front of his men without striking a blow of his own. So far, his every attempt to put the bastard in his place had failed, and Delnamal scoured his brain for some way to leave his mark and knock that smirk off Tynthanal’s face.
He began speaking before a plan had fully formed in his mind, because if he sat atop his horse and thought about it too long, it would be clear to everyone that he was once again lying.
“I have no need for an inspection tour,” he said. “I’m sure the lord commander will provide a thorough report. However, that is not the only reason I came to the Citadel.”
Tynthanal quirked a curious eyebrow and gazed up at him with an expression of polite interest. As if he already knew Delnamal was improvising and was happy to let him dig as deep a hole as possible.
Delnamal knew a brief moment of panic as he searched desperately for something to say. Then inspiration struck.
“The king, in his great generosity of spirit, has for the time being decided not to hold all the women of the Abbey responsible for your mother’s crime.” He had the unique pleasure of seeing the faintest twitch in the muscles of Tynthanal’s jaw. From all accounts, the man had had no contact with his mother since she’d entered the Abbey when he was six years old, but he was still her son, and it was satisfying to remind him—and everyone who so admired him—of his blood relation with the witch who’d cursed the Wellspring.
“The three most senior abigails have been arrested and will be forcefully questioned as to the Abbey’s involvement with this abomination. We cannot be certain the remaining women aren’t traitors, and they must not be allowed to flee justice. The king commands that you personally lead a garrison to maintain the security of the Abbey and make sure none of its inhabitants leave until we’ve gotten to the bottom of their heinous conspiracy.”
He met his half-brother’s eyes, and for the first time since he’d entered the Citadel, he felt the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The king had, of course, made no such command, a fact which Tynthanal no doubt deduced immediately. However, guarding the Abbey when the loyalty of its inhabitants was so much in doubt was a more than reasonable idea, and both men knew that the king would never make a liar of his heir. He might offer Delnamal a mild rebuke in private, but he would publicly confirm he had given the order.
Tynthanal was better than his half-brother at hiding his emotions. His smirk did not fade, and his body language did not change. Nonetheless, there was an angry spark in his eyes that said he’d been bested and he knew it. Delnamal felt a warm glow of satisfaction in his chest, his good humor almost restored despite the infernal pain in his legs and seat from the long day on horseback.
“I know serving as a glorified prison guard is beneath the dignity of a lieutenant commander,” Delnamal said with feigned commiseration, “but the king would trust this vital duty to none less.”
Tynthanal managed a wry smile, covering the surge of anger with his trademark humor. “I am as always honored by His Majesty’s command and his trust in me.”
Delnamal suppressed a snort. Not a man in earshot would mistake this command for an honor. And though Tynthanal was probably not the only one who recognized the questionable provenance of the command, no one would dare challenge it.
Knowing well that where Tynthanal was concerned, he had best take his minor victory and run, Delnamal made his stately exit.
Exhausted in body and mind, Ellin made her way through the palace halls toward the royal apartments she’d moved into a few days before. She longed for her old, familiar bed, and for the luxury of a quiet night spent in lovely idleness. However, it had already become abundantly clear that she had a lot to learn about the governance of a kingdom, and after a long and grueling day of appointments and audiences, she meant to spend the next few hours before bed studying statecraft and the convoluted laws of Rhozinolm. A daunting task, but at least one she could carry out in solitude, out from under the scrutiny that was a sovereign’s constant companion.
Her dressing room was within her line of sight when she turned to dismiss her honor guard for the night. She let out a silent sigh when she saw the look on Graesan’s face and realized her work was not yet over, after all.
“What is it?” she asked.
Graesan bowed, though it was hardly necessary under the circumstances. “If you have a moment to spare, Your Majesty, we should review your itinerary for tomorrow.”
She tried not to make a face, although she’d spent the last week attempting not to think about the ordeal of the state funeral that she would face the next day. Never had the people of Rhozinolm said farewell to so many members of the royal family on the same day, and she wasn’t sure how she would survive the endless procession and ceremony under constant, very public scrutiny while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. Genteel tears were to be expected, but a sovereign queen must under no circumstances be allowed to sob out her grief for all to see. Even now, a hard, painful lump was forming in her throat.
“Yes, of course,” she rasped, then gestured Graesan into a small public parlor just down the hall. She turned to the other guards. “You may leave me. I plan to retire as soon as the captain and I have finished.”
The men bowed and withdrew, taking up stations just outside the entrance to the residential wing.
Inside the parlor, a fire was crackling merrily. A chandelier of luminants that had been damaged during the earthquake was now fully repaired, each luminant lit and throwing back the shadows. Ellin eyed the low sofa in front of the fireplace, but as Graesan was not allowed to sit in her presence, she chose a high-backed chair at a small circular table instead.
Graesan laid a paper on the table in front of her, and she peered at it to see the route the funeral procession would travel on the following day. Her heart sank when she got a good look at how it wound through the streets in a tortuously twisted course that would take hours to traverse.
“Lord Semsulin has suggested that you ride the king’s horse for the procession,” Graesan said.
She looked at him with some alarm. She had never ridden anything but a cheval her entire life. The people were unlikely to be offended at the sight of a woman riding a horse when that woman was their sovereign queen, but tomorrow would be hard enough without having to face the fear of falling off a horse in front of everyone.
“We can put a calming spell on the saddle to keep the beast placid,” Graesan continued. “However, for security reasons, I recommend a carriage instead. While it might not look as…kingly…it has more powerful protections built in and would allow the honor guard to give you a little more space.”
Ellin allowed herself a small smile even as tears filmed her eyes. Graesan knew well how little she liked feeling crowded. She had had an honor guard for as long as she could remember, and she was never out in public without them. However, now that she was queen, the guard had trebled in size, and it felt like she was constantly surrounded.
“It will have to be an open carriage,” she said, because the point of the procession was not just that the people be allowed to see their fallen royal family, but to see their new queen as well.
Graesan nodded. “Naturally. But even an open carriage can be warded so that you need have only two men in front and two behind.”
Her smile grew a little wider as she looked up into Graesan’s eyes. “I presume that as far as Lord Semsulin is concerned, this was my idea and not yours.”
Graesan’s eyes sparkled, and his lips twitched. “It would be convenient if he were to believe that.”
She laughed briefly, then impulsively reached out and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. His eyes widened, and he shot a brief glance at the open door. He did not, however, make any attempt to avoid her touch.
“If I were a king,” she said, “and you were a maid, no one would think twice to see me touching your arm.” Or touching you anywhere else, for that matter, she thought.
Graesan covered her hand with one of his, the unexpected touch causing her to shiver deliciously. “But you are not a king,” he said with obvious regret, “and I am not a maid.” Gently, he pushed her hand away, but she could see by the darkening of his eyes that it took some effort.
Ellin had never doubted that Graesan wanted her as badly as she wanted him. While he had never challenged the bounds of propriety, he was too open and honest by nature to fully hide his feelings in her presence. He was a balm against all the scheming and dissembling of the court, and she never had to parse his words for hidden meanings. She could see his affection in his eyes, hear it in the tone of his voice when they spoke privately. He had always needed to be circumspect, and now that she was more in the public eye than ever, he would have to work even harder to keep his distance.
“I feel so alone,” she whispered, suddenly on the verge of tears. Wanting Graesan and not being allowed to have him had always been an ache inside her, but now that her life was so irrevocably altered, her whole family gone and the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders, the ache had grown into a sharper, deeper pain.
“You are not alone,” Graesan said, and his whole body seemed to lean into her. She almost thought he was going to throw off all rules of propriety and put his arms around her. She was fairly certain she would have let him.
Graesan swallowed hard and rocked back on his heels, resisting whatever impulse had moved him into her personal space. “No matter what happens,” he said hoarsely, “you will always have…people who love you. Not just people who love their queen—people who love you.”
She stared up at him, her palms suddenly damp as her hands clasped together in her lap to stop herself from reaching out to him. How glorious would it feel to be wrapped up in his arms, to drink in the warmth of his affection—had he really just declared his love for her in that roundabout way?—and hear the beating of his heart as her head rested against his chest. His warmth would chase away the chill of fear and loss and loneliness that had taken up permanent residence inside her.
“I had best return to my duties,” Graesan said abruptly, his eyes shifting away from her. “Tomorrow will be a grueling day, and you must have your rest.” He bowed low. “If there is nothing else, Your Majesty?”
She drew in first one deep breath, then another. Graesan was right, and they were tempting fate by staying too long in each other’s company in the illusory privacy of the parlor. She trusted Graesan to control himself, and she knew he would never risk damaging her reputation by giving in to his desires—it was her own willpower she doubted. As desperately as she wanted him to stay, it was time for him to go.
“Thank you, Captain. That will be all.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if there was something else he wished to say. Whatever it was, he kept it to himself, and with one more bow, he retreated.