The Prince's Heir: The Five Kingdoms, #4

By Deborah Jay

Read the gripping conclusion to The Five Kingdoms...
King Marten's reign teeters on a blade's edge. Chel's Casket, symbol of his right to rule, is missing. Can master spies Rustam and Risada recover it before someone notices its absence and challenges Marten's sovereignty? Or is there a more sinister motive behind the disappearance of the casket—a relic that could be used to raise Charin, the demonic half of the dual-natured divinity?
As a series of natural disasters besets the kingdoms, evidence points towards interference by the meddlesome deity, and the terrifying prospect of war between its two opposing aspects. 
When Marten's beloved wife, Betha, and their infant daughter vanish, Marten faces a stark choice: save his family, or try to save his kingdom from a conflict that threatens all humanity.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Jay
• Release date: Dec 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201097530

Deborah Jay

Deborah Jay writes fast paced adventure fantasies featuring complex, quirky characters and multi-layered plots - just what she likes to read. Fortunate to live near Loch Ness in the majestic, mystery-filled Scottish Highlands with her partner, a pair of horses, and a pack of rescue dogs, she can often be found lurking in secluded glens and forests, researching locations for her books.   She also has non-fiction equestrian titles published under her professional name of Debby Lush.  Find out more about Deborah on her website: www.deborahjayauthor.com

Book preview

THE PRINCE’S HEIR

The gripping conclusion to the Five Kingdoms fantasy adventure...

KING MARTEN’S REIGN teeters on a blade’s edge. Chel’s Casket, symbol of his right to rule, is missing. Can master spies Rustam and Risada recover it before someone notices its absence and challenges Marten’s sovereignty? Or is there a more sinister motive behind the disappearance of the casket—a relic that could be used to raise Charin, the demonic half of the dual-natured divinity?

As a series of natural disasters besets the kingdoms, evidence points towards interference by the meddlesome deity, and the terrifying prospect of war between its two opposing aspects.

When Marten’s beloved wife, Betha, and their infant daughter vanish, Marten faces a stark choice: save his family or try to save his kingdom from a conflict that threatens all humanity.

Try-en and Ambl

The Gemeye Valley

Family Trees

PROLOGUE

DARSHAN PALACE

PRINCESS ANNASALA PEEKED through the spyhole to scan her cousin’s antechamber. The entire court was down in the town to witness the traitors’ executions, so the king’s rooms should be empty, but Annasala was too well trained to make assumptions.  

Did Marten know she possessed a key to this secret entrance? Her father, Prince Halnashead, had given only his most trusted spies access to the network of tunnels infiltrating the palace walls. Lady Risada, Halnashead’s widow and successor to his position of Tyr-en’s spy master, certainly had no inkling that Annasala, now regarded as the ‘problem princess’, owned one.

Pinching her nose to stifle a sneeze, Annasala thrust that irritating label aside for the moment. When she was as certain as she could be that the suite was unoccupied, she slid the tiny key into the hidden keyhole and twisted it, first left, then right, to avoid triggering the poison dart that was the last line of defence should anyone breach the tunnels. The door swung silently open at the push of one fingertip.

Annasala surveyed the room, noting the precise placement of desk, chairs, tables, and ornaments. Richly patterned purple and white rugs covered sections of the wooden floor, deliberately spaced far enough apart that anyone in heeled shoes would announce their approach to Marten’s substantial desk, which sat towards the rear of the room.

After one last pause to be certain she was alone, Annasala lifted each foot in turn and brushed the dust from the soles of her soft slippers. There was surprisingly little, confirming her suspicion that her cousin received regular visits via this route from members of his own spy network. She slipped past the door that masqueraded as a bookcase, leaving it ajar in the event her mission should require a hasty exit.

Skirting the boundary of the room, she headed for the large circular table positioned beside the door to Marten’s sitting room. Her skin began to tingle. Magic. There was no mistaking the sensation. Nausea and breathless anticipation squeezed her chest. Whilst sorcery was anathema, this was different—it was the magic of the goddess; a miracle, and not the evil employed by ungodly individuals.

Annasala recalled the last time she’d seen the object currently nestled beneath the heavy scarlet cloth in the centre of the table. That had been the first time she’d been allowed to handle her Family’s heirloom: Chels Casket; the goddess’s seal of approval on their fitness to rule. Only those with royal blood could open the casket, and that day Annasala had been permitted to prove her worth. Her throat tightened as she relived the euphoria of touching the battered wooden box.

Not that Marten had allowed her to handle the magical talisman hidden inside. She’d witnessed the dragon bracelet come to life as her fingertips brushed its surface, but Marten had ordered her to stop, and Chel Herself had slammed the lid closed before Annasala could grasp the artefact.

A year ago, the temple council had given her cousin, Marten, approval to wield the talisman’s power, but his courage had failed him. When Sister Valaree informed Annasala that the priesthood’s original endorsement had been amended in her favour, she’d decided taking possession of the casket should be her first action.

And now here she was, about to make a move that could not be reversed. Was this really the best choice? She had no grievance with Marten himself, but the moment he’d declared a relaxation of the laws governing the use of magic she’d known he could not be trusted to rule the kingdom.

Yes, this was the only way. Magic must be eradicated, and all those who practiced it. Even her half-brother, Rustam. Grasping a corner of the protective fabric between thumb and forefinger, she reached her other hand up to brush away a tear.

She’d loved Rustam since childhood, long before the revelation that he was her sibling. His courage, his devotion to her—their—father, his mastery of the Game, and his rescue of her from her nightmare captivity: all of those things filled her heart. And yet he’d willingly embraced the small portion of himself corrupted by the evil of magic.

Firming her jaw, Annasala pulled the cloth aside to reveal the battered and charred box beneath. Her fingers hovered above the domed lid as she fought the almost irresistible urge to open it. There will be a better time, she admonished herself, and resolutely dropped the insulating fabric back over the casket. The compulsion dwindled, allowing her to regain control of her hands. She nudged her fingers into action to detach a canvas knapsack from her belt, before dragging the covered casket across the table until it tumbled from beneath its protective layer into the velvet-lined bag she held at the ready.

Annasala pulled the drawstrings tight, straightened, and drew two deep breaths to steady herself. She regarded the abandoned red cloth, now dripping off the side of the table like a pool of semi-congealed blood.

She’d done it; she’d taken the first step towards saving the kingdom. Marten might not see it that way, but with the backing of the priesthood perhaps she might yet convince him the time had come to use the contents of the casket, and destroy magic forever.

Taking every precaution to leave no sign of her presence, Annasala left the suite, locked the secret door behind her, and headed for the farthest exit. Brother Freskin would be the perfect guardian for the casket until such time as the priesthood advised her to open it, and use the concealed miracle within. She had just enough time to make it to the temple and be back in her place for the execution before she was missed.

BROTHER FRESKIN WATCHED as Princess Annasala hurried away down the empty temple corridor. It appeared that although she was confident enough to deliver the precious casket to him, she didn’t want any witnesses.

The priest curled the corners of his thin lips upward. Despite Sister Valaree’s assurances, he’d been doubtful of the princess’s commitment to the temple, particularly after she’d allowed her cousin, the king, to ban Valaree from the palace in the wake of the debacle surrounding Rustam Chalice’s aborted execution.

He reversed his lips into a scowl. If Lady Risada had not interfered, Chalice would be nothing but a bad memory by now. Still, there would be other opportunities, with the meddlesome magic-user now resident once more in Tyr-en.

Leaning heavily on his crutches, Freskin limped back into his small bed chamber. His frown deepened at the sight of Valaree’s slender back, with her long sable locks tumbling over her white priestess’s robes. She was slow to react to the tap, tap, of his crutches on the tiled floor, reluctant to withdraw her gaze from the fabric-covered casket resting on his bedside table. Freskin knew how she felt—the box vibrated with the presence of the deity—but jealousy swept through him, banishing any sense of camaraderie. He’d planned this day for years, and no one was going to insinuate themselves between him and his prize. Not even the woman who had successfully implemented his schemes.

Congratulations, Sister Valaree; your guidance of Princess Annasala has been most productive.

Sister Valaree turned towards him, a hint of a smile on her sculptured features. The woman was striking, with an almost unnatural symmetry to her face. Ebony hair, eyes of deep hazel, high, slanted cheekbones, and skin the shade of polished bronze, marking her as of Amblese stock—a stray Freskin had collected in his days as a travelling priest, before his devotion earned him a position at the mother temple in Darshan. Valaree had endured all the trials Freskin had used to sculpt her into his perfect aide, and despite the shortcomings of her sex—or indeed, in this case, because of them—she continued to prove worthy of his efforts.

If only she had been a male...

Freskin shook his head minutely and waved her away from the mesmerising effects of the casket. She flowed across the floor with her customary grace, deepening Freskin’s scowl yet further as he fumbled his way forward on his crutches. Panting, he lowered himself gingerly onto the single hard chair. His broken leg was partially mended, but not yet sufficiently healed to permit him to ignore it. While the injury had cost him the chance to avert the scouring of Charin’s Temple, it had gifted him with the king’s trust which, he was certain, in the long play would outweigh the loss. The god’s temple, an institution he’d spent every spare moment of his life developing since becoming a senior cleric, had escaped his direct control some time before, taking a direction he despised. Perhaps Charin had chosen to intervene directly in order to offer Freskin a second chance.

This time there would be no nobles. The despicable, self-serving miscreants had been only too quick to appropriate the god’s worship for their own purposes, and the temple’s downfall was due entirely to their arrogance. Nobles! They believed themselves so much better than other men, when in reality they were worse: no morals, no restraint, no integrity.

Freskin was proud to have risen to his exalted position within Chel’s Temple on his own merits, and not as a result of any Family wealth carried across the sea in the mass escape from the Wizard Wars. Now he planned to use that position to displace Chel as the sole incarnation of the deity, and bring about the balance that was lacking in this corrupt land.

He returned his attention to Valaree. How are you maintaining contact with her highness now you are no longer welcome in the palace?

Valaree shrugged. Annasala is a devoted worshipper; she visits the temple daily. We meet to pray together after public services.

Excellent. Your dismissal by the king has strengthened her bond with you, but you must ensure she does not become estranged from her Family; she is our only presence within the palace until such time as I am able to resume my duties and, even then, she will always be privy to information withheld from me.

Valaree bowed her head. I understand, Brother. The actions of certain individuals must always be monitored.

Freskin gave a curt nod. Valaree was obsessive in her hatred of magic users, but every tool had its drawbacks. At least this one was easily directed. She’d done a superb job of stoking Annasala’s paranoia to the point where the girl would believe anything the temple suggested if it meant ridding the kingdom of magic. Annasala had never even thought to question who, exactly, in the temple had made the pronouncement regarding her assumption of the casket’s guardianship. Valaree had delivered the message, therefore it must be true.

An asset like Annasala was invaluable, though never in Freskin’s wildest imaginings had he dreamed she would actually hand the artefact over to him without question.

Of one thing, he was sure: when the time came, it would be the princess’s hand that would open the box, but his plans for the talisman resting within did not involve her wielding it.

Leave me now. He waved a hand in dismissal. I wish to commune with the deity in private.

1.BIRTH

Spring, three seasons later...

The priestess midwives exchanged surreptitious glances and Betha knew what they were thinking. Shouldn’t she be screaming with the agony of childbirth, instead of smiling as she studied her rippling belly with curiosity? Betha had never seen another woman give birth, but she knew it was invariably a noisy, messy affair.

Perhaps she should make an effort to sound a little distressed, just to keep rumours at bay?

Be ready to push, my queen, instructed one of the women. Both were now staring expectantly at Betha’s nether regions, and she realised her idea had come somewhat too late. Both priestesses now seemed more focussed on what was about to emerge from her womb than the unnatural serenity of this royal birth.  

Now, my queen, push now!

While Betha didn’t experience pain in the same way as others, the physical demands of childbirth were no different, and sweat dripped from every pore as she pushed and panted, urged on by her attendants.

It’s stuck! she protested as they exhorted her to yet more effort. Why won’t it come out?

One of the women paused to wipe Betha’s brow, her expression betraying anxiety.

My queen, the baby is quite large, and you are not. You must make every effort you can, even when it seems you have no more to give.

She didn’t continue, but Betha read the unsaid words in the woman’s eyes: If you don’t, you will both die.

Chel give me strength, she prayed. I didn’t survive Charin’s attentions and a poisoned blade, just to die doing what other women do every day.

She redoubled her effort, and gasped at the strange sensation of the lower part of her body splitting apart. The metallic scent of blood clogged the back of her throat.

That’s it, my queen, well done: the head’s out. Rest a few moments, that’s the hardest part over.

Betha lay back obediently and panted while she flashed a quick thanks to the goddess. Her pulse had slowed by the barest fraction when she was urged to push again, but as promised, with very little extra effort she felt the baby slip from her body. The priestesses lost interest in her, bustling and cooing at the abruptly wailing infant that was the blessed reward for her efforts.

It’s a girl, my queen. You have a daught—oh!

What? Alarmed, Betha struggled to sit up, legs tangled in the birthing sheets.

Don’t! barked the older woman, and Betha subsided, her muscles going limp.

Please, tell me what’s wrong.

The matron bustled around her, plumping pillows and straightening the tangled sheets. There’s nothing you can do, my queen, you need to lie still and recover. That was a mighty effort for one, begging your pardon, as small as you are. If you ever want to have another child, now is the time to take care.

Betha’s heart jumped faster. Why should I want to think of another child at this moment? What’s wrong with this one? Let me see!

Wringing her hands together, the older woman nodded to her colleague who, with visible reluctance, approached with the swaddled princess.

My queen, it is but a small imperfection, she will learn to cope, I’m sure.

Out of patience, Betha practically snatched the child from the woman and peeled back the blood-stained cloths to behold her squirming daughter for the first time. She inhaled an unfamiliar odour—blood and sour sweat mixed with something oddly sweet—and her chest swelled, tumultuous thoughts overwhelming her mind. An overpowering urge to protect her child, even at the cost of her own life, gripped her. Whatever the problem was, it would be of no consequence: her daughter was perfect in every way, and Marten would love their child as fully and as vigorously as she did.

It’s her hand, my queen...

The midwife’s voice trailed off. Betha frowned. What did the woman mean? Five tiny pink fingers waved randomly in the air; everything as it should be. 

And then she beheld her daughter’s left hand. The digits on that side curled like claws, ending in pointed tips that resembled—yes, ‘claws’ was the only fitting description.

Betha gently teased the claw-fingers open and inspected the scaly palm. She turned her daughter’s hand over and stroked the ridged back. There was no denying it: tiny, pale grey scales gleamed where pink skin should have prevailed. They extended just beyond the baby’s wrist, melding back into normal texture about half way up her left forearm. 

Betha looked up, bewildered. What is this? Have you seen this before?

The priestess midwives exchanged anxious glances before bowing their heads. No, my queen, we have not. We will inform the temple; if there is anything comparable in the records, it will be found there.

Male voices rang beyond the door. No words penetrated the heavy wood, but the timbre of Marten’s voice enfolded Betha in a flush of warmth even as tears squeezed from her eyes. Both priestesses spun to face the unwanted intruder, arriving in the birthing chamber far too soon for their approval.

Marten burst into the room. I heard a baby cry. Do I have a son or a daughter?

As one, the priestesses bowed low. My king, they acknowledged.

Betha clutched the baby to her chest, willing the women to leave her alone with her husband, but she knew enough about birthing to realise they still had work to do.

You have a beautiful baby daughter, she said, with only the tiniest pang of concern. Marten would love their daughter as fiercely as she did, whether the tiny baby was perfect or not.

The king hastened to her side and planted a kiss on her forehead. His eyes, however, were transfixed by the bundle in her arms. He brushed a fingertip down the baby’s cheek.

She’s so beautiful, he breathed. How did we manage to produce such a miracle?

Betha glanced toward the priestesses, standing respectfully off to one side. No flicker of understanding crossed their faces. She really hadn’t thought about it, but Marten’s words made her wonder. When their unions were so wrapped up in their mutual indulgence of physical pain, did they deserve to produce something as innocent as this?

Her breath snagged. Was this why their baby was deformed? Had their unnatural practices cursed their daughter?

What is it? Marten’s attention sharpened. Are you unwell? He beckoned the priestess midwives with a sharp gesture. Attend to the queen!

Betha squirmed as the midwives lifted the sheets away from her lower body, but although something was definitely happening down there, that wasn’t the cause of her discomfort.

My king, we have women’s work still to do. Perhaps you should leave us for a while and come back when we are finished?

Betha almost smiled, hearing the senior priestess, who was clearly accustomed to giving orders, trying to work out how to ask the king to vacate the room without giving a direct order. As Marten moved to comply, though, her anxiety resurged.

Marten, you need to see...

He was by her side so fast she flinched.

What? What’s wrong?

Betha folded the blanket carefully back, exposing the baby’s arms. Marten’s breath caught, but to Betha’s relief he didn’t recoil. With great tenderness, he traced the scales on her left arm from where they began, down over the tiny curled fingers to the tips of the claw-nails.

Do you know what this is? His question was clearly for the priestesses, though he didn’t lift his attention from his tiny daughter. She wriggled, face scrunching as she began to grizzle.

My king, we do not. We must consult temple records, but in the meantime, the babe needs to suckle, and we have not yet cleansed the queen.

A scowl flashed across Marten’s features but vanished before it settled. He leaned over to kiss first his daughter, and then Betha, on their crowns. Rest assured, he murmured, "I could never love you any less. Either of you."

Betha pressed a hand to his cheek. Chel made us for one another; that is an eternal truth. Now shoo; let them finish their work. They don’t approve of men learning all their mysteries.

Marten almost tiptoed across the wooden floor. He pulled the door shut behind him with a quiet snick, and Betha gave herself over to the ministrations of the midwives. When, finally, they were done, they stood back and bowed, but Betha noticed the younger woman clasp her hands together and then twist them sharply apart.

Why do you make that sign? Betha demanded. There are no twins here.

The woman kept her face lowered. She may not be a twin, lady, but she surely bears the mark of Charin. The woman raised her sharp blue eyes, shining with fear, to meet Betha’s gaze. Might it not be best to let her go, now? A babe just born; it would not be unusual for it to die before the day is out. You are young, my queen; you will have another.

Betha’s mouth fell open. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Blood rushed through her head, almost drowning out her own voice as she yelled: Get out, get out, get out!  

2. ASSIGNMENT

T hat’s it, little man , come to your Uncle Rusty.

Risada permitted herself an indulgent smile as she watched her toddler son let go of the chair leg he’d used to haul himself upright, and totter towards Rustam where he squatted a couple of lengths away.

So, you’ve decided to be his uncle, have you?

Halson tangled his feet, and Rustam caught him before he face-planted on the office’s hard wooden floor. He set the child back on his feet and stood up, bending sideways to keep one of the chubby little hands in his own. Taking tiny steps, he led the way back towards Risada’s desk. Well, I can’t exactly announce I’m his brother, can I?

Was there a hint of bitterness in Rustam’s words? Knowing he would never be able to reveal he was Prince Halnashead’s son must rankle, even when he had no interest whatsoever in the succession.

But no. Scrutinising Rustam’s expression with every scrap of her training, Risada discerned nothing beyond the besotted indulgence Rustam displayed every time he interacted with Halson.  He led the little boy around the huge desk and let go as the toddler grabbed his mother’s leg before plopping down onto his bottom.

Fair point, Risada conceded, reaching down to tousle her son’s sandy hair, glad for the brief respite from work. With one toe, she nudged Halson’s favourite toy horse from beneath her chair until he grabbed it and put one leg in his mouth. Not quite what I had in mind, but if it makes you happy, fine. She heaved a large sigh, the familiar fragrances of parchment, wax, and ink, squeezing her heart with bittersweet memories. How could it be that after all this time, the room still smelled exactly as it had when it had been Halnashead’s?

Still nothing? Rustam asked.

Risada shook her head and frowned at the scattered papers littering the huge desk she’d inherited from her husband along with his position as the kingdom’s spy master. Not even a hint. It’s as if it vanished beneath the waves.

Rustam moved around behind her chair. Risada’s muscles tightened in reflex, and she forced herself to relax; now Halnashead was gone, Rustam was the only person in the land she would trust at her back. When his strong fingers began massaging her shoulders, she leaned into the pressure and groaned. Goddess, that feels good.

The way you were frowning, you’ll gain nothing but a headache.

"I know, but it’s so frustrating! Why would anyone go to the effort to steal the casket and then do nothing with it? How can it have been missing for three seasons with not a hint of its whereabouts? We’ve been working on the assumption that bribery or coercion are the likely motivations, but what if there really is another usurper hiding out there? Goddess knows, Belcastus was indiscriminate with his seed."

Risada and King Marten had discussed at length the possibility of yet another illegitimate relative out there, and Risada’s entire spy network now actively sought another royal by-blow. She huffed quietly to herself. As if that had worked last time. Throughout her childhood, Halnashead’s search for the rumoured royal bastard had failed to turn up even a whisper of his identity, and in the end the kingdom—and Hal’s children in particular—had paid the price.

Rustam’s voice gained a grim edge. I know it’s a possibility we have to consider, but there’s not been so much as a hint to support the theory.

Risada twisted around in the large leather armchair she’d also inherited from her husband. It was far too big for her slight frame, but she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. She met Rustam’s gaze with her head tilted.

He raised both hands. Fine! Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. I’m just trying to ease your stress.

She swung back around to the organised piles of notes transforming the desk top into a patchwork quilt. "Keep on doing what you were doing: that eases my stress very nicely, thank you."

His fingers resumed their kneading, and Risada’s attention strayed to the small stack of parchment closest to her. I have a plan, she said, but I don’t like it.

Go on.

Now that Marten has reinstituted the annual round of Fests, I want you to attend each one as the royally appointed Master of Ceremonies.

Rustam’s fingers faltered. You do realise that’s going to put a lot of people’s hackles up? There are still plenty of people who consider me Charin incarnate.

You will have Marten’s backing, and he’s in the strongest position he’s been in since ascending the throne, so no one is going to argue openly with his choice. Besides, controversy is what’s likely to cause dissension, and dissension breeds loose tongues—that’s something you’re a master of reading.

His fingers clenched, almost painfully tight. Are you ordering me to take up my old duties? He paused before adding: "All of them?"

What, you’ve lost your interest in the ladies? she teased, hoping to deflect him.

A chill whispered down her back, the comforting embrace of Rustam’s touch abruptly absent. For a man usually so light on his feet, he literally stomped around the desk, putting it between them like a barrier. Risada hated what she was asking him to do as much as he would hate doing it.

She hoped.

"We need that information. I would never ask this of you if we didn’t." 

He regarded her with studied impassivity. I thought that part of my life over, but if you need me to resurrect it, you know I’m your man, as I was always your husband’s.

His formality stung, as did reminding her of Halnashead in such fashion. When she’d appointed Rustam as her assistant spy master, it had been her intention to work with him, not to instruct him to cosy up to a bunch of vain and vacuous noble ladies, and to take that companionship as far as need be to glean the required information. Back in the old days, he’d discharged that part of his duties with inexhaustible enthusiasm, but if she was reading his body language correctly now, that passion had expired.

A rush of warmth filled Risada’s chest. Rustam was hers, as she was his. She’d promised herself they would never be parted again, and she’d meant it. But with the kingdom once more at risk, and Rustam the only one of her players in a position to slip easily in amongst the nobility—which must surely be where they would find either a profiteer, or a potential usurper—what choice did she have? Duty before self. 

He’ll hardly ‘slip’ in anywhere, she corrected herself silently. But with the crown’s patronage they won’t be able to deny him access. If only that’s all he’ll need to do.

If he could just saunter around the Fests, swing those marvellously agile hips of his in a few flirtatious dances with the ladies, and sweet talk them into revealing their husband’s secrets while still fully clothed, that would be marvellous. But it won’t be that easy. Risada’s jaw tightened. Pillow talk is always where they’re most vulnerable, and that’s where he’ll have to go. For the good of the kingdom.

Gritting her teeth, she sat up taller. I told you I didn’t like it, but it needs to be done, and you are the best.

She felt wretched, appealing to his vanity. How had Halnashead handled sending his son—and latterly, his daughter—on missions? Or had his belief in them been so strong it hadn’t worried him? She had total confidence in Rustam.

Didn’t she?

Risada studied the man she’d finally admitted she loved. He’d matured leagues beyond the youth who’d so infuriated her with his vanity and flippant attitude. Eventually she’d discovered he used those traits to hide the insecurities and pain brought by his belief that both parents had abandoned him. Uncovering the truth, and coming to terms with it, had deepened his character significantly, and the inner strength and tranquillity he now radiated served to make an already handsome man desirable beyond measure. As a couple, they were still trying to work out how to overcome society’s constraints regarding their relationship, but for now the fact that it was still a closely-guarded secret would work to their advantage.

As you wish, was all he said, making Risada’s stomach churn. She reached down to place a hand on her son’s warm head for comfort.

Rusty, if you have any other ideas, I’m more than willing to hear them. It was never my intention to ask you to enter the game in person again.

If I think of any, you’ll be the first to know, he said before spinning around and marching to the exit. The door shut behind him with a sharp crack that slapped Risada like a physical blow. Forcing herself to calmness, she leant over and lifted Halson onto her lap.

Your uncle isn’t happy with me, is he? Do you think I’m wrong, asking him to do this? What would your father have done?

Halson giggled as he grabbed a stray lock of her fair hair and gave it a surprisingly painful tug. Risada disentangled his fingers while distracting the child by tickling him with a feather quill. She knew the answer without needing Halson’s input: the security of the kingdom must come first.

Always.

CONFLICTING EMOTIONS soured Rustam’s stomach and he clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to strike something, and yet nothing convenient presented itself aside from the innocent door upon which he’d just vented his temper. Slamming it