Of Duty and Silver: The Complete Series: Of Duty and Silver

By J.S. Mawdsley

Betrayal, war, epic romance, murder, and espionage run through the five books of the complete Of Duty and Silver series. The Kingdom of Myrcia stands at a crucial turning point, suffering under weak leadership, faced with serious and growing threats both from within and without. Will sorcerers with their own agendas and histories improve the situation, or send Myrcia and her neighbors into a spiral of chaos?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Mawdsley
• Release date: Nov 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201812225

J.S. Mawdsley

We’re a husband and wife novel writing team and have been since about a month after our marriage in 2007. He’s a teacher of education law. She’s a Librarian. Being able to write together so happily once made a friend remark that we are as mythical as unicorns. J.S. Mawdsley live in Ohio, where they share their house with half a dozen dying houseplants, and their yard with a neighborhood cat named Eugene, a mother deer and her fawn, affectionately known as the Countess and Cherubino, and a couple of blue jays, Henry and Eleanor. 

Book preview

Maps

Myrcia and the Northern Trahernian Lands

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MYRCIA AND THE NORTHERN Trahernian Lands

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WESTERN MAP: PRESIDIUM, Immani Empire to Newshire, Myrcia

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EASTERN MAP: NEWSHIRE, Myrcia to Western Loshadnarod

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Introduction

Hello! And thank you for buying this box set with all five novels in the Of Duty and Silver series. It’s only a metaphorical box set, since it’s only available as an ebook, so there is no physical box to contain it. If this troubles you, feel free to make a box on your own. Make it whimsical. Let your imagination run free. Be our guest.

The Of Duty and Silver series was the result of nearly seven years of work. Rest assured we did other things during that time, of course. We wrote other books (some of which we have published as stand-alone novels). And we had to spend time with work and friends and family, as well. But we did do quite a bit of writing. It’s our main (and sometimes only) hobby, in fact.

We didn’t write these five books in the order they appear here, however. The first to be written was The Queen’s Tower in 2014, followed by The Last Bright Angel in 2015. Alert readers will note that these are the first and last books in the series. The events of The Last Bright Angel take place sixteen years after the main action of The Queen’s Tower, and for a long time, we were perfectly content to allow the events of those years to remain a shadowy mystery.

Then, in 2019, J wrote For Her Own Good as a present for S. (We do this a lot, by the way—writing each other presents for birthdays and Christmases and other occasions. Yes, we know this is sickeningly cute, but we regret nothing.) It’s the story of how the most horrible couple in history came to be married. (What a romantic gesture, right?) It takes place during and immediately after The Queen’s Tower. In some ways, that book marked the end of an era, because it was the last book either of us ever wrote purely as a hobby—purely for our own enjoyment, and not for publication.

Because, that same year, we made the momentous decision to start publishing our novels. We had written quite a few by then, and as one of us said one day to the other, Even one sale is better than no sales at all.

Not that we had any great expectations for our sales. Back in 2019, we assumed most people would have better things to do than sit around all day reading ebooks. Surely, we thought, people in 2020 would be out and about, going to work and going shopping and going to movies and interacting with other people at distances of less than six feet. Reality, as you no doubt have noticed, failed to live up to those expectations. (Our profoundest thanks to everyone who spent lockdown or quarantine reading our books.)

Like any good fantasy authors, we wanted to publish a series of novels. Everyone knows fantasy authors write books in series. It is a truth universally acknowledged, in fact, that a single fantasy novel in possession of a decent premise must be in want of a series. When we decided to publish our series, though, that sixteen-year gap between The Queen’s Tower/For Her Own Good and The Last Bright Angel suddenly became a problem. We needed to fill that gap with at least a couple more books.

Luckily, we had some ideas for that filler. A war breaks out during those sixteen years, so obviously it would be a good idea to have a book that explains how that war got started. Hence Royal Obligation. Then, when we were revising The Queen’s Tower, we added the characters of Grigory and Presley. They proved unexpectedly popular with our readership (bless them). So we decided they deserved a book of their own. Hence Reunion Vale.

And that’s how we ended up with five novels in this series.

If you’re sad that Of Duty and Silver has come to an end, though, fear not. Our first novel in our next series, The Reign of the Eagle, will be coming out early in 2022. So keep an eye out for that.

But in the meantime, we hope you enjoy these books. If you’ve read them before, we hope you enjoy them a second time. We read them over and over and over again while revising and proofing them for release. So trust us—they hold up to repeated readings.

J and S Mawdsley

Volume I: The Queen’s Tower

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THE QUEEN’S TOWER – Prologue

315 M.E.

Cathedral Square had never held so many souls at one time, though soon there would be three fewer. Merewyn, Queen of Myrcia, sat on a raised dais next to her husband, King Ethelred, as they watched the three ringleaders of the recent riots being escorted to the gallows. The two men and a woman looked like solid respectable citizens, not criminals. They might be dressed in stained rags, rather than the fine clothes they arrived wearing to the capital, but they still held themselves as if they were attending a royal salon.

It is not too late, whispered Fransis, the captain general. You could still grant them a pardon. Exile them if you don’t want them to return to Leornian, but you don’t have to kill them.

You will forgive me if I pay as little heed to your words as you did mine, Ethelred answered.

Caedmon Aldred, one of the court hillichmagnars, now stepped in front of the prisoners to offer a final prayer for their souls. Ethelred had at first balked at this part of the ceremony, believing that having an angel of Earstien bless the prisoners would make it look as if they were being honored, rather than disgraced, but it could be difficult to argue with an angel, and Caedmon got what he wanted.

Caedmon said his final words and stepped aside so that the hangman might come forward. The condemned men and woman stood atop trapdoors, all connected to a single lever the hangman would push, and they would fall as one, hopefully snapping their necks in an instant.

The queen shifted in her chair, uncomfortable in the baleful gaze of thousands of people. They stood on wagons and statues and climbed the scaffolding of the unfinished cathedral in order to gain a better vantage point. Many had been in this square before for this same purpose. Executions were common enough, and typically the mood was raucous and festive, with vendors wandering through the crowd selling sausages, meat pies, and cider, as if it were a holiday.

Today, however, was as different as a funeral from a wedding, the atmosphere solemn and reverent. No one seemed to think that what they witnessed was a cause for celebration. The subjects assembled here in the presence of their king saw and understood. If they were starving, their king would just as likely kill them as feed them.

In the beginning, the trouble in Leornian had barely seemed worth the king’s notice. A few market stalls were overturned, and there were petitions to the duke about the price of food. Ethelred could have stepped in, but he had declared it a local problem. Soon the whole market square was in flames and shops were being vandalized as the people starved. The Duke of Leornian sent a plea for help through his son, Brandon Dryhten, who had been Ethelred’s best friend since childhood, but Ethelred had still hesitated. Finally, when one of the duke’s squires was murdered in the street, Ethelred had not merely acted, but overreacted.

He called on the head of his army, Captain General Fransis Sigor, who also happened to be his cousin and another of his old schoolfriends, to take the army to Leornian and quell the riots. And not simply quell, but annihilate. Kill them all, Ethelred had ordered Fransis. Any person who disrupts the peace, put him to the sword. Bring their leaders to Formacaster, and I will string them up by their thumbs in the square!

Brandon had tried to protest. He had told Ethelred that a violent military campaign against his own people would make things worse, not better. But Fransis and Merewyn had exchanged a brief but meaningful look, and Merewyn knew Fransis—the best man in Myrcia—had no intention of starting a massacre.

When he arrived in Leornian, Fransis had assessed the situation and promptly opened the army’s own grain reserves to feed the people. The riots ended immediately once bellies were full, and the three people at the forefront of the disturbance agreed to return to Formacaster with Fransis to explain their plight to the king and beg his mercy, because Fransis encouraged them to believe that Ethelred would be merciful.

Fransis had known the king all his life, but Merewyn could have told him this would be a mistake. When the army marched into Formacaster, the crowds cheered Fransis like a great war hero of old. Ethelred’s jealousy of his handsome, charming cousin blossomed under the adulation, so that when Fransis finally appeared before the king at Wealdan Castle, Ethelred felt obligated to stand firm and execute the leaders of the riots.

All the court had been shocked to find that one of these leaders was a respectable woman of business, a high-ranking member of the Brewers’ Guild, in fact. When Ethelred pronounced sentence, a ripple of discontentment had spread around the throne room and the great Palm Court. Fransis had tried again to make his cousin see reason, but that had only inflamed the king’s envy further. Ethelred stammered out that no matter what promises Fransis might have made them, the leaders would hang. The time for mercy, he had said, was now past.

So, here they were, surrounded by all Formacaster on a warm early autumn morning watching the hangman tighten the nooses around the necks of the three leaders. Merewyn sat in silence next to That Man, as she preferred to think of her husband. Two guards stood lazily at the back corners of the dais. Brandon stood just off Ethelred’s left shoulder, while Fransis took up station off Merewyn’s right.

Please, Ethelred, Fransis repeated. Don’t do this.

The king has already given you his answer, said Prince Edgar, Ethelred’s younger brother. He stood between the two thrones, his hands resting on the backs of them. He had long been the fourth member of their tightly-knit little fraternity. Merewyn wondered if their friendships would ever be the same after this. Personally, she wanted to slap Edgar, or at least tell him to stop hovering over her like an overfed vulture.

For Leornian! the condemned woman cried. This caused the first real disturbance in the crowd, and the call was swiftly taken up by others. The guards on the dais and the soldiers off to the sides peered this way and that, trying to determine where the cries were coming from, which surely explained why none of them saw the young nobleman standing to the left of the dais unsheathe his sword and jump toward That Man.

Merewyn recoiled, not wanting to be stabbed by mistake. Ethelred, unsurprisingly, froze solid. Fransis, however, saw the threat to his king and pulled his own sword. He parried the young assassin’s blade to the side and then drove a short dagger deep into the attacker’s chest. The young man collapsed in a fountain of blood as Ethelred continued to cower in his chair. Merewyn sat mesmerized, staring at the dark stain seeping across the rough boards of the dais, until a flash of red sparks caught her eye.

At first she thought someone had started a fire, but then she saw another young man floating in the air a few feet off the ground, his body parallel with the cobblestones beneath. The flames and sparks surrounded his rigid figure as faint, strangled noises squeaked from his throat.

Caedmon appeared before the dais, having traveled the forty feet from the gallows in less than a second. We need ropes or shackles, he said. My spells will not hold him the entire trip to the castle.

One of Ethelred’s guards, who really ought to have been stationed decidedly closer to the royal family, hurried forward with a length of rope taken from his sword belt, the sword still uselessly tucked in its sheath. Once Caedmon lowered the body to the ground and the sparks faded, the guard bound the man, as Caedmon scanned the crowd for other threats. Merewyn, however, returned her gaze to the dead man before Ethelred. Fransis had rolled him over, Brandon now at his side, and they inspected the assassin’s weapons.

I know him, Brandon said, and then looked at the other man, who lay twitching under the guard’s harsh treatment. I know him, too. They are my father’s squires.

Leornian’s squires? Ethelred asked. But why would they want to kill me? I am executing those responsible for the crimes committed against their duke and his city.

There used to be three of us, the bound squire hissed through gritted teeth. He was blond and acne marred his flushed face. But you refused to help until one of us died at the hands of the rioters. You should pay for his death as surely as those three should hang.

Ethelred gawped, and Brandon appeared genuinely heartsick and shaken, so Fransis finally stood and took charge of the situation. Gag the prisoner and take him to the castle dungeon. You! he snapped at the other guard. Find a litter and take this body away. I will make an announcement that the execution shall not be carried out today, and we will take the prisoners back—

No.

Everyone turned to look at Ethelred, who scowled up at Fransis from under his lowered brows. Do it! Ethelred shouted to the hangman, who pushed the lever, and the three bodies dropped.

MEREWYN LAY LIMPLY on her stomach, still shaking, while Fransis rolled away to grab a towel. She had missed him these past two months, missed his beautiful body as entirely as she had missed his clever conversation, neither of which she could hope for from her husband. Not that she wished to think about That Man while Fransis gently cleaned her naked body.

Her husband and her lover. That Man had come inches away from death today, and only Fransis’s quick action had saved him. But what if Fransis had done nothing? What if the King of Myrcia lay dead awaiting burial, instead of sitting by a fire downstairs, drinking mead? Everything would be different.

You saved him today, Merewyn said.

Fransis, lovely Fransis, kept his head lowered, his deep brown eyes averted as his hand traced down her back. He is my king. I acted on instinct.

Maxen would be king now, she whispered, envisioning her 3-year-old son being crowned. Do you think he would make better decisions than his father?

Fransis stretched out along her side, pressing his body to hers and kissing her cheek. He would be more likely to listen to you, which would mark an excellent change.

You were amazing, she said against his lips before she started kissing him.

We should get back to the feast.

There’s no rush. That Man was well on his way to complete drunkenness when we left and will not miss us. Besides, the Howards are in the room below having their own reunion.

Merewyn’s lady-in-waiting, Tegan Howard, was the wife of Fransis’s best general, Sir Swithin Howard, and they, too, had been apart for two months and wished to be alone. The Howards were very loyal to Merewyn and Fransis, and would never allow anyone past them, so this room atop the northwest tower of the castle was as safe a place as any to meet.

Besides, Merewyn added, I require more time with the great hero.

That’s ridiculous. I’m no hero. I merely happened to be standing close enough to help.

I’m not talking about today. You were a hero before that.

Fransis sighed and shook his head. All I did was give some hungry people a little food.

Which is something their king failed to do. She shifted onto her side to provide a better angle for her kiss, not hurrying it, but instead cataloging every individual sensation of their mouths caressing, the softness of his lips and warmth of his tongue. You’re infinitely more popular than he is now.

Are you speaking for yourself? He rolled her over onto her back and leaned against her side, kissing her neck and stroking her stomach, his hardness once again growing apparent against her thigh. She moaned. Yes, that’s certainly just your opinion.

The conversation ceased while they explored one another’s bodies as if checking that they hadn’t missed something earlier. Her breath quickened when Fransis’s hand slipped over her stomach and found its way between her welcoming thighs. With a rumbling groan that threatened to grow into something decidedly louder, she sank her teeth into his shoulder to keep from alerting the entire castle.

Later, once she caught her breath, could focus her mind beyond wordless sensation, she said, We do need to get back to the feast soon, so let us be serious for a moment.

I promise you I have been utterly in earnest this entire time.

She sighed deep in her throat as his lips brushed her ear, but she forced herself to squirm away and look him in the eye. Ethelred sent you to kill starving people because he can’t manage the grain reserves. But instead you opened the army’s stores and fed people who would be dead now, either by the sword or for want of food, without you. Do you not see what this means to the people in this kingdom?

Fransis propped himself up on his elbow. Ethelred has always put aside more reserves than the army needs. It would simply have rotted. Giving it to those people was the only decent and intelligent thing to do.

Ethelred didn’t make you captain general so you could be reasonable. He did it so you would follow his orders. He’s not happy, not that he will be able to show that publicly without making the people hate him all the more.

He made me captain general because you asked him to. Edgar’s never forgiven me. As the king’s brother, he had some right to expect the job.

It’s his own fault for completely lacking talent.

But Fransis shook his head. This situation cannot continue indefinitely. No amount of life-long friendship and familial ties will sustain us in our current positions. Ethelred and Edgar will not be able to sit quietly by forever as my popularity with the people and the court expands. People are already taking sides and approaching me. He sighed. Only Brandon loves us all equally.

So what will you do? she asked, running her fingertips over his hip.

That is the question, isn’t it?

Have you spoken to Robertson yet?

The dean of the cathedral? Why would I talk to him?

Trust me, she said. You really should.

He frowned, but for only a moment. Right now, I don’t care about Robertson, or anyone else. Remind me tomorrow. Then he rolled gently on top of her and pushed inside once more.

Chapter 1

Seventeen Years Later

For the one-hundred-and-thirty-second time that morning, Queen Merewyn circumnavigated her tower room. Every creaking floorboard was familiar to her, every long shadow across the dark, time-worn furniture. The dust hung in the sunbeams, and the logs in the fire crackled and crumbled, exactly as they always had. She sometimes had the feeling that she had been in these chambers for no time at all—that she was living the same day over and over again.

But no. Today would be different. She stopped at the leaded-glass windows, drumming her fingers on the frame and trying to see beyond a narrow strip of weather-stained gatehouse and white gravel drive. The carriage had arrived twenty minutes ago. No, more like thirty now. Where was he?

She forced herself to stand up straight and step back from the window. After checking yet again that her hair was properly in place, she started pacing again, circumnavigating.

Was that even the right word? The most apt? No, it came from the Immani, meaning to sail around. The proper term would be...circumambulating? What a ghastly word. No, it would never serve. Circling, perhaps? Rounding? Lapping? Fringing?

For half a second, she thought she heard the door unlocking, and she spun around. In the sudden motion, she rammed her hip into the corner of a little side table. She bit her lip to stifle her moan and rubbed the injury. There would be a terrible bruise there tomorrow, but she forced herself to straighten up, take a deep breath, and keep moving, walking the pain away. It would never do to let her boy see her limping. He would think she was getting old.

She blinked back a few tiny tears. That would never do, either, to let him think she had been crying. He would imagine that was all she did up here—weep for the past and for everything that might have been.

No, no, no, she said to herself. Maxen is coming to see you, and you will be happy for him.

Earstien, where had the boy gotten to? He’d been at the castle half an hour or more now. Obviously he had to speak to Brandon. It was only common courtesy to greet one’s host. But how long did that take? Did he not understand that his mother was waiting for him?

She took a deep breath and smoothed her dress. It was new, and she reminded herself she must thank Brandon for the gift. The chocolaty shade suited her perfectly. Not every jailer would take such care. Or at least she assumed they did not. Merewyn had no other jailer to whom she could compare Brandon, but she doubted anyone else would choose prisoner garb so as to match chestnut hair.

My hair! She could swear she felt it coming loose now.

She slalomed through the two skinny pillars in front of the window alcove, clutching fistfuls of the dress, and scurried up the little curved stairs jutting from the wall. She did not stop running until she flung herself down before the mirror. Haley had twisted her hair into an intricate yet loose bun at the crown of her head. A few wispy curls trickled down over her temples as though they had simply come free, rather than being strategically planned and meticulously colored. Merewyn patted her coif and breathed deeply again. Still perfection. Now if she could only do something about her puffy, tired eyes.

Mother?

Oh, no. How could this happen? She should have never run up here to check her hair. Why had she doubted Haley? She should have been downstairs to greet her son. Stupid, silly, foolish old woman, she muttered.

I’m coming, darling!

She flew across the flagstones of her bedroom as quickly as her thin slippers could safely take her. Shifting the silver bird hanging from the chain around her neck back to kilter, she took a long breath. Then she descended the stairs to the only other room in her tower apartment with all the poise and grace that befitted a queen.

It had been nearly a year since she had seen Maxen. Surely it must be her maternal eye, but she could swear he had grown more handsome. Wasn’t his jaw stronger now than she remembered? Weren’t his shoulders wider? He was certainly wearing his hair longer now, and he had on a silver half-cape and a flat, baggy little felt cap with a blue silk tassel. Was that the fashion now?

Then he dropped his forearm from the hearth, resuming his usual adolescent slouch, and she realized he looked much the same as ever. The cape was pretentious. The flat cap was completely wrong for the shape of his face. Not that it mattered to her in the least how her boy stood or how handsome he was; he was here.

He met her halfway across the floor and kissed her cheek. How are you, mother? Sorry I haven’t been sooner.

He opened every visit to her with these same words. She had insisted time and again that he should feel no guilt for not visiting his prisoner mother more regularly, yet he felt it all the same.

Do not let any perceived duty to me plague your sleep.

But I do. He smiled and she could have been peering in her mirror again.

Fransis had once said that her smile was the first thing he had loved about her. He had said that her barely parted lips, turned slightly up at the corners, made her look as if she had just thought of something amusing and was wondering whether or not to share it. Did the girls at court think the same thing about Maxen?

The smile faltered. She had been staring at her son too long. She was embarrassing him.

Never mind, never mind. Sit. She bustled him to the table and into the chair closest to the fire. Wine? She poured and offered the glass to him. He took it so greedily that he nearly slopped it on his sleeve. Silly boy.

With a dramatic flourish, she uncovered the little bowl of pistachios, and he reacted with mock surprise, just like he always did. My favorite! Then he cracked open half a dozen in rapid succession and stuffed them into his mouth, alternating with quick gulps of wine. Merewyn tactfully averted her eyes; this was hardly the moment to chide him over his table manners.

She avoided the obvious question: Why are you here? Or, more precisely, Why are you here with only three days’ notice, after staying away for eleven months?

Now, she said. I must be told all the news. Because, surely, there must be news. Or have things in the capital become so frightfully dull that you had to come all the way out to Leornian for amusement?

He snorted in his wine. Formacaster isn’t worth talking about in comparison to Leornian.

Odd—she could distinctly remember him saying that Leornian was damp and cold, full of preosts and professors and other equally boring people. Had that been last year, or five years ago? It was hard to keep it all straight sometimes.

What was occurring out there in the wider world of the city? What was going on beyond the thick walls and her narrow windows? Beyond the reach of the spell that kept her confined to this apartment?

If only she had a window that faced south, directly over Addle Street, she could have seen it all: knights in their armor, urchins in rags, beggars and brewers and butchers. Silk merchants in vivid purples and reds. Messengers from distant lands; mummers and minstrels playing for the passing crowds. Sometimes on the great feast days, she could hear the sounds of music and cheering. But she could never see what happened out there, outside the castle. In the first years, it had tormented her to think that ordinary life carried on, and ordinary people were strolling freely back and forth, just twenty yards from where she slept.

Not that events in Leornian had any effect on her. The city might as well be in the Void for all she had to do with it, and somehow that made hearing about Leornian all the harder. But she still longed to know.

Before she could ask, however, Maxen blurted out, I had to be the one to tell you! The Queen of Loshadnarod and the crown prince are coming! There will be a feast and a joust, and maybe even a melee. Isn’t that wonderful?

Merewyn set down her own wineglass hard. "Nina is coming? Are you serious?

Maxen’s expression brightened again. And the whole court will be meeting them here at the Bocburg, because my...because everyone at court thinks it will be more polite to meet them halfway.

So this was your father’s idea?

She never called That Man the king. She didn’t even like thinking of him as Maxen’s father or my husband. It was a point of principle with her.

Mother, you don’t seem quite as excited as I had thought you would be.

Is this absolutely certain?

Yes! Well, I mean, it’s fairly certain. He opened a couple pistachios and chewed them thoughtfully.

‘Fairly certain.’ I see. She took a sip of wine to cover her disappointment. If Queen Nina wanted to visit Myrcia before winter set in and made travel along the Upper Trahern nearly impossible, then she would have to leave soon. It didn’t bode well that the arrangements were still unsettled.

Half to herself, Merewyn said, Why here? And why now, exactly?

Obviously to ask father to release you!

It was tempting, so very tempting, to think that might be true. But the Loshadnarodski royals could have visited anytime in the last seventeen years. What had changed to bring them now? Did they have something they wanted from Myrcia? Surely they had an agenda of their own—an agenda that had nothing to do with her.

Do you think Nina is really coming to plead my case?

He slouched a bit lower in his chair. Of course she will, won’t she? I mean, for years you’ve been telling me that story about how you gave her that pin when she was a little girl and you both said you would always be friends.

Long ago, Merewyn had made a great impression on the Loshadnarodski queen, entirely by accident. In the first year of Merewyn’s imprisonment, the only person to send a word of support was Queen Nina. And Nina had written five more times since then. Merewyn could remember every letter, almost word-for-word. They were censored by That Man’s agents, and Merewyn wasn’t allowed to keep copies. But she remembered them, all the same.

Nina was a grown woman and ruling monarch now; if she still cared even an iota about Merewyn, being in the same city could change everything. But only if Merewyn could find some method of turning the visit to her advantage, despite these utterly impenetrable walls. Perhaps she could coach Maxen to act as her intermediary with Nina. He was, after all, her only true ally in the world.

Merewyn took a deep breath, and asked calmly, When will she be here?

I don’t know, exactly. The first week of October, probably. He heaved a sigh and crossed his arms. These things get decided without me, mother.

There was a petulance in his voice that she had hoped he would outgrow. She poured herself a little more wine and said, Surely, darling, these things are decided by the council.

Frowning, he tugged at the braided fringe of his half-cape. I don’t usually go to council meetings anymore. No one listens to me.

She filled his wineglass again. Darling, as I have often said, the key is confidence and—

"And preparation. Yes, I know. But it doesn’t matter how confident and prepared I am, because father and Uncle Edgar and everyone else listen to...to...him. Maxen pounded his fist on the table, almost upsetting his glass. They listen to Broderick. Not to me. To Broderick."

He is the captain general. He is twelve years older than you and an accomplished soldier. You know I’ve often thought that you should cultivate a friendship with—

So people can gossip about how I don’t measure up to him? Did you know he’s started a fencing club in Formacaster? Everyone wants to be a member. It’s all any of the fellows at court talk about anymore. And then.... Maxen gave a sour look. "And then he actually sent me a personal invitation to join, if you can believe it."

Merewyn took a good look at her son. Maxen had a slim build, but then again, his father had been slim at twenty, as well. According to the rumors that Haley passed along, That Man was starting to spread.

You ought to join the club. Fencing is excellent exercise. It also sounds like an opportunity to mingle with the men who will one day serve you. Never underestimate the benefits of popularity.

Oh, trust me. I don’t.

Poor Maxen—he had inherited her desire for popularity, but his father’s inability to attain it.

"Darling, I would like to offer you some advice that I hope you will take to heart. You are the crown prince. You make fashion. If you can’t join Broderick’s au courant, as the Brigantians say, fencing club, then see to it that no one wishes to fence anymore. Perhaps you could start a rage for music that will make everyone in Formacaster forget about fencing."

Mother, have you forgotten that I’m not musical?

No, darling, I haven’t. You needn’t be. You need only to surround yourself with those who are. The important factor is to choose an endeavor at which Broderick cannot meet you.

Maxen’s face reddened, and his eyes had a brittle, desperate look. Merewyn recognized it as the expression he used to wear right before he started throwing toys.

He gulped down some wine. I’ve been thinking, he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. I’ve been thinking I should do something with the Loshadnarodski crown prince. When they’re all visiting here, he and I should...oh, I don’t know...sponsor a tournament or go hunting or something.

An excellent idea, said Merewyn, honestly impressed that he had thought of this on his own.

Her son’s lip quivered. Not that it would matter. Broderick will show up, and of course Vadik will like him better.

Ah, that was more like Maxen: pettiness combined with self-loathing.

Then draw Broderick in from the beginning. Bring him over to your side and make him a friend and confidant. He would be a powerful ally.

I’d sooner trust a snake.

He is your brother, darling.

He’s not my brother. He’s my father’s bastard! Maxen sat up, fists clenched at the edge of the table. You’re always taking his side.

Maxen, she said sharply. This is unworthy of you. Broderick may be captain general, and he may be popular now. But the mob is fickle in their affections, and you are your father’s true heir.

Am I? he snapped, leaning over the table. Am I really? Because every once in a while, I hear a rumor about you and our dear, late Cousin Fransis, and honestly, if it were true, it would explain—

She slapped him.

If I had raised you, you would never dream of saying such things in the presence of a lady.

Some people say you gave up the right to call yourself a lady when you conspired to put your lover on your husband’s throne.

This wasn’t a new conversation. When Maxen was 15, he had asked for the truth—the complete and unvarnished truth of why she had been locked up. It seemed as though she would have to repeat herself yet again. You know I never had any part in the conspiracy, she said firmly. When you speak this way, it leaves me in no doubt as to why Broderick is more beloved than you. Bastard or no, he is an honorable and gallant man.

Maxen, who was still rubbing his cheek, muttered, He’s an arrogant fucking prick.

Before she could admonish him for language, the huge iron lock of Merewyn’s door clicked open, and Lady Haley Randal arrived with two housemaids carrying the luncheon that Merewyn had ordered. Merewyn wasn’t sure she had an appetite anymore, but she smiled and chatted with Haley while the servants set the table and laid out the three courses: curried vegetables, cold ham and pickles, and blackberry pie.

As the housemaids left again, Haley curtsied to Maxen and said, I trust you concluded your business in town successfully, your royal highness.

Merewyn paused with a serving fork in her hand. Your business? Which business was this, my dear?

All the color had drained out of her son’s face. Um...er...just visiting you, mother. And talking to Duke Brandon about the Loshadnarodski visit, um....

And talking to the bishop, too, of course, said Haley, smiling. You’re ever so brave, your royal highness. I know the bishop has always scared me half to death. She curtsied again. Excuse me, your majesty, your royal highness. Enjoy your lunch. The door shut and locked behind her.

With swift, savage strokes of the carving knife, Merewyn cut off a piece of meat no bigger than the palm of her hand. Then she ladled a spoonful of vegetables to her plate, not caring that the curry sauce splashed over the starched linen.

So you spoke to Bishop Robertson? she said in a low voice.

Ah. Um...yes, said Maxen. Please, mother, before you say anything else, I know you don’t like the bishop, but—

Why would you talk to him?

I...I...I, well...he’ll have to be involved when the Loshadnarodskis visit, of course, and—

Have I not been clear enough? Never, ever trust that man.

Maxen rolled his eyes. Because of what happened with Cousin Fransis, you mean? I still don’t quite understand how he ties into the whole business.

Oh, if only she could tell him that story! If only she could explain why the bishop wasn’t to be trusted. If only she could explain why it had all gone so wrong seventeen years earlier. But one might as well wish that Fransis were still alive.

Maxen, I want you to stay away from the bishop. I mean it.

Mother, he’s the head of the church. Someday when I’m king, he’ll be the one who conducts the—

Very well, then! Her head started to hurt. Perhaps it was this wine—it wasn’t very good. You can talk to him at your coronation. But not before.

You never trust me, said Maxen softly. I wish you trusted me the way I trust you.

It’s not that I don’t trust you, darling. It’s never that. Maxen should appreciate that, at least. If only she could explain it better! Once she had been renowned for her eloquence, and now she couldn’t even convince her own son of how deeply she loved him, but her head was muddled, and she couldn’t focus. I’m so sorry, darling. Please forgive me. I haven’t been sleeping well. I can’t express myself as I wish to. But promise me you know that I love you.

Looking up, her same dark eyes stared back at her, and she could read them as clearly as any script. This time when she reached out for him, he leaned forward to place his cheek in the palm of her hand. Of course, mother. I know that. He closed his eyes. I’m sorry you’re in here. I want to get you out. I promise I’m doing everything I can. Please trust me.

Chapter 2

When Maxen got up to leave, he promised to see her again soon.

Are you staying in Leornian long? she asked.

He looked embarrassed by the question. He almost looked guilty, in fact. Possibly. Quickly, he kissed her goodbye. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more about Queen Nina’s visit.

Once he had left, and the servants had carried away the dishes, Merewyn settled into the window seat tucked into the alcove behind the pillars. The view was in no way picturesque—simply the wide gravel walk patrolled by the duke’s men outside the wall and a narrow strip of the dusty cobblestone gutter. She could hear carts moving along Addle Street and the hearty laughter of revelers from the inns and taverns nearby, but she could not see them.

The window faced west, though, and now in the afternoon it brought her warmth, as close to outdoors as she ever got. Some force or energy in the sunlight always focused her mind and made it easier to think logically.

What was Maxen doing, exactly? Why was he even here in Leornian? Yes, to be sure, he wanted to see his loving mother. But the more Merewyn thought about it, the more she found his timing strange. Why now? Why not wait a few weeks until Queen Nina and the Loshadnarodskis arrived?

More importantly, why was he talking to Bishop Robertson? If only Maxen knew the full story. It seemed too late to tell him now, but what if Robertson told Maxen, instead? And Robertson’s account would no doubt be some twisted version that made his grace the hero.

There was a knock, and Haley stopped in to see if Merewyn needed anything else. Merewyn told her to take away the pistachios. Maxen adored the wretched things, but Merewyn had never been able to stand the taste of them.

What do you hear around town about Bishop Robertson? Merewyn asked, as Haley collected the bowl of nuts and the dirty glasses.

The young lady-in-waiting shrugged. I heard someone say once that Earstien helps those who help themselves, and no one has ever helped himself more than the bishop.

Merewyn gave a wan smile. Do you happen to know anything about my son meeting with his grace?

Perhaps he’s looking for spiritual guidance, ma’am. I really couldn’t say. I hope I wasn’t speaking out of turn to mention it. The only reason I knew he went there was because he told me when I asked about his day.

Merewyn felt no desire for additional frustration, so she sent Haley away and then poured herself a small glass of Immani Argitis.

Spiritual guidance? she muttered under her breath with a roll of her eyes. She didn’t think Maxen was terribly interested in religious matters—no more so than any fashionable young man. But she had to admit an uncomfortable truth: her son badly needed guidance.

She ought to have been the one to guide him all these years, but she had been stuck here in this tower. Clearly That Man had been too interested in his latest mistresses to look after his son and heir. So Maxen had grown up adrift, and sadly, it showed. It was no wonder that he looked to people like Robertson for advice.

In her absence, and in the virtual absence of That Man, Maxen should naturally have been drawn to his charismatic half-brother, Broderick. But the differences between them—in age, in talent, even in looks—were simply too great. Maxen was jealous, and in all honesty, he had reason to worry about Broderick’s popularity. Not that Broderick had any conscious design against Maxen, but he always shone too brightly in comparison.

If only Merewyn could get out of this tower, she would be able to help them both. She could steer Broderick’s natural abilities to Maxen’s advantage, rather than to his detriment. She could teach Maxen to complement Broderick’s skills, rather than try pointlessly to compete with them. But she could only do that if she could get out of this tower.

Her thoughts turned to the news that had originally brought Maxen to her chamber: Queen Nina was coming.

The Loshadnarodski queen was Merewyn’s first genuine hope in years. And That Man would be meeting her here, in Leornian, most likely in this castle. What if, with Nina’s help, Merewyn could engineer a meeting with That Man? Was that even possible?

What might she persuade him to do? For years she had thought of what she would say to That Man if she found herself with the opportunity. At first, these speeches overflowed with vitriol. After a few years in this apartment, the tone of her imagined speech became less openly hostile, but far more biting. She derived a great deal of pleasure from that fantasy, in fact.

But no daydream satisfied her like those in which she killed him. Early on, she had envisioned brutal beatings, or snatching a dagger from his belt and driving it through his throat. As her speeches grew tamer, so did her fictional methods of killing That Man. She would save medicines from the doctor and Haley and use them to poison him, or at least make him drowsy enough she might smother him in his sleep. Lately, when she thought about his visiting, she pictured herself smiling and welcoming him, then following him out when he left and shoving him headlong down the stairs.

She felt he deserved no less. Locking her up here to be utterly forgotten and neglected was cruel not only to her, but to Maxen. Yes, if That Man were dead, Maxen would surely release her from this prison, so she might take her place at her son’s side. Because Maxen badly needed her help. He was a pleasant enough young man, but the way he was going, he would never be a great king. In fact, simple competence might be out of his grasp.

This was no time for idle daydreams, no matter how pleasant. Killing That Man would be highly impractical. There would be a scandal, and Maxen would be implicated, even if he weren’t involved at all. Plus, poor Brandon would be mortified.

No, with Queen Nina and the Myrcian court coming here, there was a chance to do this right. She could win everything she desired at no risk to herself or to Maxen’s reputation. She just needed to find a way to get That Man to do precisely what she wanted, like she used to long ago. Merewyn tried to think of how she could convince him to let her leave this tower—to remove the spell that kept her here. How could she prove that her only concern was for the welfare of their son?

To begin with, of course, she would have to start referring to That Man by name. It felt odd to say it, even silently in her mind: Ethelred. She tried a whisper. Then louder, and finally in full voice, the way a herald might announce him at a feast: His Serene Majesty, Ethelred Sigor, King of Myrcia.

He was her husband, too. She should reaccustom herself to thinking of him in such terms: Ethelred, darling. Ethelred, dear. Have you met my husband, Ethelred?

But every word struck her as a betrayal. She and Fransis had started calling him That Man together. When they were alone in those fleeting moments where they could think what they desired and say what they meant, they did not wish to think of or speak the name of the man they cuckolded. When they were together, intertwined under a blanket in a stable or lucky enough to lounge naked in a feather bed, they were Merewyn and Fransis, not the Queen of Myrcia and the Earl of Wellenham. They were lovers who craved one another and nothing else in all of existence. It was not until the trousers and shift slipped back over their flawless, youthful bodies that they began remembering who they in fact were. But in those moments, still damp with sweat, still smelling of each other, they could not countenance even the thought of That Man’s name.

Merewyn closed her eyes and breathed deliberately. Seventeen years, she had been faithful to those memories. But Fransis, of all men, would understand, would consent to her calling Ethelred by name, if it meant she could truly live again and help her son. He had wanted for her to make Myrcia a better kingdom, because there had been a dream once between them, and it would only be realized if she could get out of this tower. And that would only happen if she condescended to call That Man, Ethelred.

Ethelred. She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out with a sob. Ethelred.

Chapter 3

The fire crackled, and Brandon shifted uncomfortably once more in his chair. He had been seated before the fire in the dining room ever since supper ended, not even starting in the direction of his study where he knew important work awaited him. He could envision the blank parchment, ink, and quill sitting useless and unmoving on his desk. I could write tomorrow. Nothing would be lost if I slept first. Perhaps I would finally discover how best to word the request with just one more night of sleep.

Glass of Cheruscian fortified wine in hand, he stood and walked over to the window and peered between the iron framework of diamonds. Across the courtyard, light still twinkled from the fifth floor of what everyone now called the Queen’s Tower. Merewyn was still awake. He sighed, knowing he had already delayed his duty longer than he ought.

He finished his wine, dropping the glass on the table as he exited, and then made his way down the imposing hallway, full of tapestries and relics—shields and swords and a pair of old crowns locked under glass—from when the Bocburg was not a mere duke’s residence, but home to the King of Leornian. Brandon had been born here, and while it felt like home, he could never be entirely at his ease surrounded by the history and power and the weight of expectations.

He had spent much of his youth in this castle, growing up with his best friends, gaining confidence in his abilities to perform his duties as they all took on responsibilities of their own. He was about to write to the oldest of these friends, and he should not feel as nervous as he did addressing a man he had known all his life. But some topics would always be painful between them, and no count of years would ever be able to alter that fact.

A small fire still burned in his study, and once he lit a few candles on the table by the door, he headed straight for his desk, as a jouster might throw himself headlong down the tiltyard. He placed himself on the edge of his chair, assuming the writing position of a schoolboy. Opening the ink and picking up the quill, he scooted the candle closer and bent over the page. The letter needed writing, and no amount of wishing otherwise would change the fact. He set himself to it.

Bocburg, Leornian

September 6, 332

Your Majesty,

And let me also add, Dear Ethelred. My great friend. I write you tonight on a most critical matter, not necessarily to the future of the kingdom, but critical to the wellbeing of another person in my care. I speak of Queen Merewyn, and I must implore you to consider her feelings in regards to your upcoming visit here to meet the Loshadnarodski delegation.

Her majesty has been made aware of the visit, as was inevitable. She is not isolated and speaks with people every day, including his royal highness, who visited his mother yesterday. I know they discussed Queen Nina’s visit, and soon I will need to talk with her about the event, as well. My greatest wish is to be able to tell her that she will be allowed a modicum of freedom during the visit of the Loshadnarodskis.

I make this request on numerous grounds. First of all, we wish to extend every hospitality to our foreign visitors. Queen Nina’s regard for Queen Merewyn is well documented, and I believe allowing the two of them to meet, unrestrained, would be a fitting gesture to make to our guests. It would also likely make Queen Nina more amenable to work with Myrcia on other issues important to the kingdom.

Secondly, I believe the people of Myrcia would take this decision of yours in a light of magnanimity that would only enhance your standing with them. After the exceptionally wet spring and summer, the people could do with something to feel positive about.

And thirdly, Queen Merewyn is a person, like the rest of us. Constant imprisonment is not a state in which anyone can thrive. She has paid for her crime. Perhaps she can now earn a little of your mercy.

We can, of course, discuss this further when you get here. I fear I have failed to state my case as eloquently as it deserves. Just, please, try to keep your options open at least until you arrive, in the name of our long friendship.

I am and have always been your most loyal friend and subject,

Brandon Dryhten

Brandon read through the letter several times, finally deciding to rewrite it, changing some of the wording here and there, such as amenable to enthusiastic to describe the hoped-for support from Queen Nina, and view your decision to replace the awkward take this decision of yours. Satisfied at last, more than an hour after he first touched ink to parchment, he carefully folded the letter, dribbled sealing wax where the sides met, and pressed his ring to it.

He poured himself more wine and moved closer to the fire. The nights for the past week had grown chill, and in his old age, he often appreciated a warm fire in a way he never had in his youth. No, in his youth, his enthusiasm for life and his friends had kept him warm. And the obscene amounts of wine we consumed. He chuckled softly, remembering drinking until the sun rose, Ethelred on one side of him, Fransis on the other, Edgar nearby and eager to join them, which they happily allowed. Brandon and Ethelred had been inseparable in school at Atherton (his parents had sent him two years early since he and the crown prince got on so well when they visited court). A few years later, Fransis had joined them, quickly becoming indispensable.

Oh, those perfect, golden years of shared youth, before the damned riots in Leornian and Ethelred’s violent overreaction had ruined everything. Except that wasn’t quite right. It hadn’t been the riots that ended those idyllic days. It hadn’t been the three ringleaders Ethelred stupidly put to death. It hadn’t been Fransis. It hadn’t even been Ethelred, really. Much as Brandon hated to admit it, the person who drove a wedge between the four friends forever had been Merewyn—beautiful, brilliant Merewyn.

He loved Merewyn like a sister, but her romance with Fransis and then marriage to Ethelred had changed everything, even if they hadn’t realized it at first. No, at first, when they had come to court as young squires, everything looked as though it would continue more or less the same. Fransis courted Merewyn in secret, while his cousin, Ethelred, had dithered back and forth about who he wanted as his future queen. This fatal indecision continued even after his father, old King Edmund, had died, and Ethelred had taken the throne. Then finally, disastrously, out of a dozen highly-eligible young ladies from four countries, he had chosen Merewyn. Merewyn had acted in public as if she were thrilled to be chosen. And Fransis had behaved as if he were simply a loyal friend, pleased at her good fortune. Of course, this was merely a performance to deceive their friends, and Brandon soon saw through the charade. Their love had not ended, only become secret.

Brandon had learned this earlier than anyone, because he, too, had a secret love—a person who was still in love with Merewyn, no matter how he pretended in public. Unlike Merewyn and Fransis, though, Brandon learned to reconcile himself to the fact that his love would never be reciprocated. So two years after Merewyn and Ethelred’s wedding, he had married Ellen Sigor, Fransis’s beloved sister. Brandon had loved Ellen and been happy with her, but a part of him never stopped longing for something else. Someone else.

He shook his head. The hour had grown late as he sat alone with his thoughts, and it was far past time for him to climb the stairs to his bed.

He twisted the ring he had used to seal the letter around and around on his finger. No smudge of wax remained, and in fact, it appeared as if it had just been polished. Nothing ever marred the signet ring of the Duke of Leornian. War and death and fire and, at one point, being dropped in a river, had failed to leave a single mark. It was a marvel of magy that never failed to impress him, even though he wore it every day.

He pressed it to a notch in the wall behind his desk, and a hidden door slid open by magy, revealing a staircase. More than three hundred years before this night that saw Brandon Dryhten, the latest, but certainly not the most impressive, Duke of Leornian wander off to bed too late, Caedmon Aldred had spelled this ring. It was the only means of opening the doors leading to this staircase.

Brandon actually knew Caedmon quite well. They were both on the privy council together. Every once in a while, Brandon considered asking more about the history of his ring. Had one of his ancestors simply wanted a private means of going up to his bedroom, or was there some scandalous and fascinating story attached to the staircase? Perhaps Brandon would ask Caedmon when the great hillichmagnar arrived with the court at the end of the month. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Maybe the mystery was worth more to him than the truth.

But he put thoughts of magy behind him as he climbed the stairs, his bedroom and a soft bed awaiting him at the top. With the most important event the Bocburg had seen in his lifetime a month away, he needed to snatch sleep whenever he might. He had capable assistants, and if the royal visit succeeded, he knew he would be one of the people least responsible. Still, the praise or blame would fall to him, and he must do all in his power not to disappoint Ethelred, his king and friend.

His nightshirt lay on the bed and his fire had been lit. He stripped off his clothes, draping them over the back of a chair. He had only just got the nightshirt over his head, when a knock came, and before he could find his robe or invite the visitor in, the door pushed open.

Here you are, said his sister, Hildred, as though hurling a damning accusation at him for being in his own room late at night.

Yes, here I am. I was about to turn in.

Not yet. She dropped into a chair next to the fireplace and stared at him until he tossed the clothes from the other chair to his bed and took a seat. Mister Kemp is being impossible about the housing arrangements. I need you to tell him I am in charge. Hildred’s pale cheeks flushed with annoyance.

Brandon did not care to have this argument, again, with his sister, especially when he longed for his soft bed, mere feet away. We discussed this, he sighed. You will plan the feast and the various social functions. You are beyond all question the authority on such entertainments in the kingdom.

Brandon was not merely flattering his sister, but speaking the truth. As the eldest daughter of the Duke of Leornian and wife of the Bishop of Formacaster, she had naturally filled Merewyn’s place at the king’s court. People called her the First Lady of Formacaster. When it came to royal feasts and visits,