Black Eagle Rising: Reign of the Eagle, #1

By J.S. Mawdsley

The old king is dead, leaving 8-year-old Prince Edwin as his heir. Broderick Gramiren is the most popular man in Myrcia, and as the illegitimate son of a previous king, he has always felt the throne should be his. With only a weak boy in his way, Broderick has decided that his moment to rise has come. Yet not everyone in the kingdom is willing to allow Broderick to wrest the throne away from the legitimate successor. The boy king's sister Elwyn is thrust into a leading role in helping her brother keep his crown, working alongside a lovely spy from the world's most powerful empire. But will their best efforts be enough to overcome the talents of Broderick's most trusted henchman?

Book 1 in the exciting new Reign of the Eagle series, Black Eagle Rising picks up where the Of Duty and Silver series leaves off, but can be enjoyed independently.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Mawdsley
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201199562

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

Chapter 1

352 M.E.

The king was dying, and someone had to tell him. The court sorcerers were conveniently out of town on important errands, so they couldn’t do it. The court physicians huddled behind heavy curtains and down darkened stairwells, silently daring each other to deliver the bad news.

Broderick, watching them from a shadowy corner of the Lower Robing Chamber, let them bicker and flounder for a while. He was curious to see if they would find their courage. But they never did. So finally, he rose, straightened his cloak, and headed up the stairs, tossing them a careless, I’ll do it, over his shoulder as he went.

Edgar was in the Gold Parlor, in the northeastern corner of the castle, where the physicians thought a fine breeze would relieve his fever when the weather turned warmer. Not that it mattered now. He probably wouldn’t live to see spring, even though that was only a week and a half away. Today it was still too cold outside to open the windows. Rain splattered against the leaded glass, and the air in the chamber felt dank and smothering.

Heavy brocaded curtains hung between the gilded pillars, which only made the atmosphere more stifling. As Broderick pushed through and approached the royal sickbed, Edgar stirred.

It really is unfair to tell me to sleep, and then not let me do it.

Rolling over slightly, he saw Broderick. His eyes were quick and alert in his gaunt, waxy face. That was good. There had been days recently when Edgar had disappeared, muttering, into a private world of opium dreams, and he seemed to forget not only that he was King of Myrcia, but even that he was a grown man.

So, it’s you, again, the king said, his brow contracting. Here to gloat, are you?

Broderick bowed. Not at all, Uncle. I would ask if you are comfortable, but you would think I was being sarcastic.

Are you here to slip me some poison, then?

There was a hint of an old accusation there, and Broderick knew better than to take the bait. Best to press on. I regret to say, uncle, that I have bad news. The physicians think your condition is deteriorating.

Deteriorating. Edgar blinked a few times, then shook his head. What does that mean, exactly?

It means they think you do not have long to live.

Broderick watched the look of stunned disbelief cross his uncle’s face. As sick as the man was, he had still thought he would recover. What an astonishing capacity for self-delusion. Edgar’s eyes watered and his lip quivered.

Then his expression hardened. No. Dammit, I won’t give you the satisfaction.

Very well. Broderick bowed again. No doubt you will prove the physicians wrong.

He wouldn’t, of course. But Broderick didn’t need to quibble. He could afford to be magnanimous. After all, he would still be alive in a month. And you never knew who might be listening. Smiling, he backed out and started to close the curtain. I shall let Rohesia and the children know you’re feeling better.

Edgar’s head, slowly settling back into the nest of pillows, snapped up again. I want you to stay away from them. Especially my son.

Of course, your majesty, said Broderick, in an even, smooth tone.

When he met the apothecary’s apprentice on the stairs, he slipped the boy a shilling and said, His majesty is raving again. Between you and me, an extra grain of opium in his wine tonight would do him a world of good.

Feeling he had more than fulfilled his duty, Broderick went down to the ground floor of the castle, where all the most impressive public reception rooms were located. Ladies and lords and gentlemen stood around the shadowy halls or sat in secluded nooks of the soaring Palm Court. Some of them were trading rumors of the king’s health. But just as many of them were talking about young Prince Edwin, the king’s only son, and guessing who might be named regent for the boy if the king should die. Broderick knew he was the last person Edgar would have chosen for the job. But Edgar wasn’t going to be around to make that choice. That would be the duty of Broderick and his fellow members of the privy council.

Near the center of the Palm Court, Broderick saw the Bishop of Leornian. His grace sat at the edge of the fountain pool, head back, watching the rain wash over the glass dome high above. Broderick politely extricated himself from a pair of young knights who wanted news of the king and went to join the bishop.

Searching for the Light of Earstien at this dark time, your grace? Broderick asked.

The bishop sighed. The scriptures say the Light can always be found by anyone who seeks it. Though Formacaster winters really strain that metaphor. Is there something I can do for you, captain general?

I was hoping for your advice, your grace. I’ve had—well, I suppose we all have had the king and his family in our prayers.

Very true, very true.

And most particularly the crown prince. I would like to feel, your grace, that there was something I could do to help guide young Edwin.

H’m, yes. Quite. The bishop gave him a look of vague piety. No doubt, yes. However, for the time being, we must pray that his royal father is around to guide him for many years to come. Beyond that is...well, a bit premature. Assuming you’re speaking of the regency, of course.

Regency? Oh, Earstien. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. Clearly you are more clever about these things than I am, said Broderick, backing away and smiling to cover his tactical withdrawal.

After this unpromising start, he moved on to the library, off the Palm Court, where the air was colder and drier, and safety lamps flickered over the gilded bindings of ancient volumes. Amid the high shelves and the polished dark paneling, carved with figures of all the animals of Myrcia, some of the courtiers had sought a quieter refuge. But even here, people were talking. A group of young ladies’ maids—none of them much older than his daughter—stood in the central chamber dabbing their eyes and talking about the poor queen.

Around the corner in one of the lower reading rooms, Broderick found two more privy councilors, Baron Corbin and the Duke of Pinshire, nestled in wide, black leather chairs. Corbin, the Lord Mayor of the capital, saw immediately what Broderick wanted. I’d say his royal highness couldn’t have a better regent than you, he enthused.

The duke refused to discuss the matter, however. His majesty may still recover, he snapped, looking up from a long scroll of tax records. It’s unseemly to be discussing this now.

Naturally, said Broderick, with an apologetic bow. In my concern for the young prince, I seem to have forgotten myself.

From a side passage came a rustle of silk, followed by a high, feminine voice, worn and ragged, asking, Who is speaking of the prince?

Queen Rohesia came bustling in, followed by two of her ladies and her stepdaughter, Princess Elwyn. Even in the dim light, they glittered with jewels and gold embroidery. Their dresses, yellow and blue and red, fluttered like wings. The duke, the baron, and Broderick all stood and bowed to them, and the ladies curtsied back with gentle, avian grace.

This picture of feminine perfection was somewhat spoiled, though, when the queen crossed her arms and let out a heavy, irritated sigh, looking even more annoyed than usual that Broderick had insinuated himself into her day.

Your majesty, Broderick began, all our thoughts and prayers are with your husband and with your son, in this time of—

Have you seen my husband today, Lord Gramiren? the queen asked.

Indeed I have, Broderick answered. I left him a few minutes ago, and I can tell you that his—

You are not wearing your golden collar of office, Lord Gramiren, she said, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes. You are not wearing your sash of the Order of Finster. I would expect a privy councilor to know how to dress for an audience with the king, but perhaps I expect too much.

She stepped closer, into the direct light of one of the lamps, and Broderick could see her face was pale, except around her eyes, where the skin was puffy and red. No doubt someone had given her the same awful news he had delivered to Edgar.

I do apologize, your majesty.

Perhaps, the queen went on, one has to be born into nobility to appreciate these rules.

That was a low blow, and even the queen’s ladies seemed to realize it. Their eyes went wide, and one girl chewed her lip nervously, no doubt wondering if she would have to intervene to preserve decorum. But Broderick merely smiled. In five decades, he had heard every possible joke and insult about his parentage, and while they still hurt as much as they ever had, he had gotten much better at hiding his anger.

Who do you think you are? he thought, as he bowed ever lower. He was the son of a king, and who was she? The daughter of the Earl of Hyrne? Finster’s balls, when she had arrived at court, she’d been a teenaged nobody. If he had been as cruel as some people thought he was, Broderick could have told her what the privy councilors had said about her when her marriage to Edgar was first proposed. He could have told her that she was only queen—with the power to lord it over barons and dukes—because someone had looked at her wide, farm girl’s hips and those big heifer’s tits and decided she was a safe bet to produce an heir.

But he liked to think he was a fair-minded man, and he wasn’t about to insult a woman to her face on the day she learned that she would be a widow. There would be plenty of time for insults later. He made another, much more elaborate apology, and exited the library as the queen was led away in tears by one of her ladies.

Still smarting from the insult, he stalked across the Palm Court. In the alcove by one of the waterfalls, he passed Flora, Duchess of Keneburg, writing a letter. She waved him over and asked what was wrong.

The king’s health is worse, he told her, and the queen’s nerves are fragile. Even to an old friend like Flora, he wasn’t about to admit that his pride had been injured by Rohesia, a woman young enough to be his daughter.

The duchess hurriedly put away her pen and parchment. Oh, the poor thing. I suppose I’d better go see to her. With a sad smile, she blew him a kiss. Thank you for letting me know, Broderick, dear. She trotted lightly off, long red hair flowing behind her, and then he was alone.

He started up the southwestern tower, headed for his rooms, but when he got to the third floor, he paused only for a moment before continuing on, up past the royal apartments, to the guest rooms on the fifth floor. He had planned to visit sometime soon, and if this was a little earlier than he had intended, then that was fine. He had had enough of court life for one day.

Anne was out, but he had the key to her rooms. He was the one who had arranged for her to get them, even though she wasn’t a lady-in-waiting or the wife of a minister. But he was friends with the chamberlain, and there were almost always extra rooms. And the people who knew about Anne generally lauded him for taking such pains to keep things discreet. He was fairly certain his wife appreciated it, anyway.

Anne was an incorrigible collector. Her apartment was crammed full of furniture and tapestries and knick-knacks that she had picked up in the market. Water pipes from Tartu and calligraphic scrolls from Shangia vied for space with stuffed birds and shadow boxes of dried flowers. The effect was either claustrophobic or cozy, depending on his mood.

A housemaid came in and built a fire in Anne’s parlor—the one with the wide windows looking out through the rain and over the rivers to the west. He helped himself to some of the wine, which was fair, since he’d paid for it. And then he settled down in a big, overstuffed chair to wait.

He had nearly nodded off when Anne returned, soaked to the skin. Oh, you’re here! she cried, eyes lighting up with almost canine excitement. I was out riding over Gleade Hill, and then the storm started.

The look suits you, he said, setting down his wineglass and beckoning her over.

You’re an ass, she giggled. She started fumbling at the toggles of her sodden riding dress, but he pushed her hands away and did it himself.

Do you want to know what I did today? he asked, as he pulled the wet fabric from her glistening skin.

Not really. It’s probably something boring and political, isn’t it?

He laughed. Exactly right. How did you know?

On the far side of middle age, there was something gratifying about the notion that this lovely, voluptuous young woman wanted him. But that would have been true of any number of women. What he particularly liked about Anne was that in the five months they had been seeing each other, she had never once shown the slightest interest in his work. All she wanted to do was dance and go riding and make love.

She crawled up on the chair, warm and damp, and straddled him. Are you spending the night?

Possibly.

Possibly? She bit his lip, tugged, and then let it go. What could I offer you to make you stay?

I’m sure you’ll think of something, he said. Then she gave a little gasp of delight as he slipped a finger into her.

Chapter 2

I f you show me another jar of bodily fluids, I will smash it over your head. Elwyn’s voice came out high and strangled, like she’d been running or crying.

The physician—a balding, gangling Annenstruker—gave Elwyn a wounded look. Your royal highness, I merely wished to point out how much less blood there is now. This is an excellent sign, and it shows that the regime of bleeding I have instituted has restored—

Elwyn rubbed her temples with her fingertips. You mean you’ve taken so much out of his arms that there’s none left for him to piss out? What a marvelous improvement.

This fellow was the very last of all the physicians, doctors, and surgeons assembled at the castle to have any hope left for her father’s recovery. Elwyn’s stepmother, the queen, had been up all night, watching over the administration of lancets and leeches. Then she had retired to bed, almost broken by exhaustion and worry. And that left Elwyn to deal with the man this morning.

My lady, if I could try the purgatives we discussed, I am certain—

There will be no need. This was a new voice, deep and steady.

Elwyn and the Annenstruker physician turned to see two people push through the curtain. One was a short woman, shorter even than Elwyn herself, with a soft, round face and thick brown hair twisted up under a gold mesh head cloth. The other, the one who had spoken, was a tall, thin man whose auburn hair was tied back with a piece of simple twine.

Elwyn had never been so relieved to see anyone. These two had been gone on a diplomatic trip for several weeks, and it was about time they were back. The woman was Lady Jorunn Unset, the man was Lord Caedmon Aldred, and they were the court sorcerers. More than that, they were hillichmagnars, angels of Earstien, granted a portion of his Holy Light to serve mankind. Gifted with supernaturally long lives, they had guarded and guided the nation for centuries. If anyone could save her father, these two could do it.

They lost no time in disabusing her of this idea, though. After Lord Aldred paid off the Annenstruker man, they took Elwyn into one of the side parlors, and they told her the results of their own examination of the king. He has gotten much worse since we left, said Aldred.

I’m afraid the only hope now is prayer, said Lady Jorunn, with a prim and pious little nod that instantly reminded Elwyn why she had never much liked the woman.

I have given your father opium, Aldred went on, and used a spell to further ease his pain. Lady Jorunn and I will renew the spell periodically. However, I am afraid your father has no more than a week to live. Perhaps no more than a day or two. You must prepare yourself and your family.

Elwyn managed to hold back her tears long enough to assure them she would do her best. But when they were gone, she locked herself into the nearest privy and cried until her throat ached, with her head against the cold stone wall, and her long braids coming slowly loose and falling over her shoulders. Lord Aldred wasn’t the first physician to tell her that her father was doomed. He was, in fact, only the latest in a long series to do so. But he had been her best hope, and now she finally had to accept this was really going to happen. Her father was going to die.

When, at last, her eyes were sore and dry, she put her hair back up as best as she could, straightened her dress, and climbed up the long, spiraling dark staircase to the royal apartments. Her stepmother was still asleep, and her brother and sister were having their lessons with their tutors in the nursery, so she went down the hall into her own apartment.

When she entered her parlor, a blast of cold air hit her, and snowflakes swirled past her head. Her bedroom door stood wide open, and the door to the outside balcony, too. It had snowed in the night, and Elwyn certainly hadn’t left her rooms open to the elements. The long curtains around her bed fluttered, and a dusting of frost now covered her hunting bow where it hung on the wall. Another few steps, and she saw someone standing out on the balcony. A stocky figure in a soiled gray nightshirt. The man turned, and she saw the face in profile—gaunt and pale, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. But still terribly familiar.

Father! She ran onto the balcony. Father, what in the Void are you doing? She dragged him, unresisting, back inside and shut the door. Father, sit down, she said, leading him over to the weathered old rocking chair by the hearth. Let me start a fire. Why are you out of bed?

He did not sit, and he did not even seem to notice her until she wrapped a blanket around him. Then he turned, wisps of hair flying wild, eyes wide with terror, grabbing her arms and twisting them until she cried out.

Elwyn, listen, he hissed. Elwyn, beware of him.

Who? Father, let go.

Broderick, he said, shaking her. Broderick, your cousin. Broderick, my brother’s bastard! Then his face fell, and his chin trembled. Oh, Elwyn, I looked in the book. I looked in Finster’s Book, and what it said.... Tears ran down his withered cheeks. Oh, Elwyn, you must not trust him.

The Book. In Aid of Leornian’s Rulers was a magysk book first gifted to the Kings of Leornian, who became the Kings of Myrcia. Traditionally, only the king, queen, and heir knew the spell to open it and read its prophetic advice. She wasn’t even sure her 8-year-old brother, Edwin, knew the spell. The book was only consulted on rare occasions, and she wondered what had possessed her father to crawl from his bed and do so now.

She worked an arm free from his grip and put it around his shoulders. What did it say, Father? What did it say?

The strange fit left him, and he sagged against her, barely able to move. He’ll be next, and no one is going to miss me, he said softly.

That’s not true, she said, throat tightening.

They all wanted him, and I thought I would be better at it. Because I’d been born to it, you see. I honestly thought so.

Father, what are you talking about?

I saw my father do it, and my brother do it. I didn’t want it, but I thought I’d be better than that morally empty bastard of Ethelred’s. He shook his head. I thought, ‘If Ethelred can do it, surely I can be a good king.’ I was so sure I was ready. But now they’ll all want him.

Then his eyes went glassy, and he seemed not to hear anything she said. He stood there, gazing placidly at the rows of antlers on her bedroom walls and occasionally muttering, Better than him. Eventually she left him on her bed and fetched two guardsmen and her lady’s maid. With their help, she got him back down to his sickroom in the Gold Parlor.

As they settled him into his bed, he gave her a tearful smile and said, When I’m better, we’ll go hunting again. If I can’t be a good king, I can at least be a good father.

She hugged him and said, You’re already a good father.

His absence had been noted, of course, and Lady Jorunn, who had been mixing medicines in an adjoining parlor, apologized profusely for not keeping a closer eye on him.

When Lady Jorunn had whispered some sort of sleeping spell over him, and when the guardsmen and the lady’s maid had gone back to their duties, Elwyn took Jorunn into the side parlor and shut the door.

My father said he read a warning in Finster’s Book. The hair stood up on her neck as she remembered the wild look in his eyes.

A warning? Lady Jorunn raised an eyebrow.

Yes, a warning.... Elwyn paused, looking back at the door. There was no telling who might be listening. A warning about a specific person. Let’s put it that way.

The hillichmagnar gave Elwyn that exasperating smile. Your royal highness, for two thousand years your ancestors have studied that book. More than a few of them have thought they read great prophecies there. But these prophecies, I must tell you, rarely come true. At least not in the way your ancestors thought they would. Only Earstien knows the future.

But if my father thought he saw a warning against someone....

He may have seen anything. There is no way to know. The words can shift and change, or so I am told. I would not put too much stock in it. Lady Jorunn moved closer and patted Elwyn on the shoulder. I would certainly not let it prejudice you against this...certain individual. Your father, I regret to say, is not in his right mind.

That was not much comfort, but it was sadly easy to believe her ladyship. Elwyn had never been particularly close to her cousin Broderick. But she had always liked him. Sometimes, in fact, she had thought he was her favorite member of the family, even though she knew her father had some sort of grudge against the man. Apparently there had once been people who thought Broderick should have become king instead of her father. And now, all too probably, her father was dwelling on that fact in his final delirium, and on all his perceived failures as king. As Lady Jorunn said, he might have read anything in the book and turned it, in his failing mind, into some sort of dark prophecy of doom.

Elwyn went back to the royal apartments, but the housemaids were still clearing the snow out of her bedroom and building a fire to warm the place up. So she got a camp chair and went to sit on the inner balcony, the one that overlooked the wide Palm Court. She and her father had sometimes come out here when the weather was bad and mended their hunting gear, half-shaded by the upper fronds of the big palms. Today, though, she sat and looked at the snow settling on the glass dome high above, watching as it filled in each little pane and the gray light faded and diffused.

What if that’s the last time I speak to him? she wondered. In all the excitement, had she even remembered to tell him that she loved him?

She did, and she always had, even though sometimes he had made it difficult for her. He had sometimes yelled at her in front of the court, even back when she was 8 or 9 years old. He had called her selfish, which hurt because it was true, and spoiled, which hurt because it was not. Hunting was the one thing they had ever had in common, and even there, he would often snap and snarl at her if he thought she was making too much noise. He was the main reason she had developed a preference for hunting alone.

She was thinking that perhaps she might go take a ride outside the city, to visit some of the places she’d gone hunting with him, when a small, quavering voice called out her name from behind her. She turned and saw the slim form of her brother, Edwin, peering around the corner.

Elwyn? he repeated. Elwyn, I’m...I’m sorry to bother you.

He shuffled his feet nervously, and she realized, with a sudden jolt of self-reproach, that he was scared of her. Perhaps she should make an effort to show him a little warmth. Especially now. It’s no problem, she said. Come on out.

With a look of palpable relief, he glanced back around the corner and whispered, It’s alright. Then he came over, followed closely by their 5-year-old sister, Alice, and Jennifer, the daughter of the Earl of Stansted, who was Alice’s best friend. Alice had a worried look and was sucking on a finger. Jennifer ran over to the big marble railing and stood on her tiptoes to spit over the side. Elwyn would never have admitted it out loud, but she always preferred visiting the nursery on days when Jennifer came over to play. The girl had a streak of bloody-minded, tomboyish independence that reminded Elwyn of herself. She seemed a good deal closer in spirit than either of Elwyn’s half-siblings.

Unfortunately, the children hadn’t come out here to play. It seemed they had heard the king’s voice from Elwyn’s apartment, and they wanted to know why he had come up to visit without walking over to see them.

Is Father feeling better? Alice asked, still with a fingertip in the corner of her mouth.

Can we go down and see him? asked Edwin.

Let’s go, said Jennifer. You can come, too, Elwyn.

They looked so hopeful. They were all so certain good things would happen because they wanted them to.

For a few moments, Elwyn couldn’t find her voice. She wiped her eyes preemptively and pulled Alice onto her lap. Oh, I don’t think it’s such a good idea. Father is very sick, you know.

Alice tugged at Elwyn’s braid. But he’s getting better, right?

Elwyn considered her answer carefully. If Lord Aldred and Lady Jorunn and all the physicians were right, then the children were going to know the truth very soon, one way or another. Their smiles faded as she fought for words.

Father isn’t getting better, she finally said.

Is he going to die? Edwin asked.

The physicians think he will, Elwyn confirmed. Lord Aldred thinks so, too. They all started to cry, so she pulled them into a hug, including Jennifer. It’s alright, she said. He’s going to Earstien’s Light, but Mother and I aren’t going anywhere. And you know we both.... Her voice failed, and all she could do was stroke Alice’s head as the little girl curled into a ball, sobbing.

Footsteps approached, and Elwyn, blinking away her tears, looked over the children’s heads to see Queen Rohesia glaring down at them. Huddled behind her were two of her ladies and Mrs. Ripley, the chief nursemaid.

That’s quite enough, now, said the queen. Children, go with Mrs. Ripley.

Alice, still sniffling, climbed obediently down from Elwyn’s lap, and the ladies gently led the children away. Elwyn stayed where she was, wiping her eyes and avoiding Rohesia’s gaze.

When they heard the door of the nursery shut, the queen spoke again. What were you thinking, telling the children that? she demanded. What purpose could that possibly serve?

They need to know, Elwyn said stubbornly, looking out over the Palm Court. It’s only right to be honest. Edwin may be king in a few days, Mother.

There will be time to worry about that later. That Annenstruker physician is very optimistic about your father’s prospects.

Lord Aldred disagrees.

Lord Aldred may be an angel, said the queen, but last I checked, he hasn’t become Earstien himself. Your father must follow the physician’s regime, and we must pray. And in the meantime, we must stick together. You and I must carry on as if nothing is amiss.

Elwyn turned and looked at her. Are you joking?

Certainly not. Now, as you know, or rather, as you should know—I doubt you’ve been paying any attention to the palace bulletins—the entire privy council is here today. We must entertain them. Be sure to wear that emerald necklace the Duchess of Keneburg bought you for your 20th birthday. Now go select one of your best gowns. No, wait. Have Phoebe choose one for you. I don’t want you coming to a formal luncheon in a riding dress again.

Yes, Mother, Elwyn sighed, and then she stomped off to her apartment.

Only Rohesia would think she could hold back the inevitable with court dresses and etiquette.

Chapter 3

Broderick only hosted Anne at his own chambers on rare occasions. But he had been up for hours, pacing the echoing halls, and when she had found him, well past midnight, and suggested a drink, he took her to his rooms, because that was where he kept all the best whiskey.

Anne thought his apartments were boring, and she was always trying to liven them up by giving him stylish Immani oil paintings and scented candles, which he dutifully put on display for a day or two before passing them off to the servants.

He didn’t think there was any need to change how his rooms looked. He liked the cheap set of six little tapestries with The Life of the Blessed Ovida that his children had bought him for the Solstice ten years ago. Immani art critics would have been appalled by the garish colors and amateurish composition, but he didn’t care. Neither did he care what anyone said about keeping all his everyday clothes in trunks, rather than wardrobes. For a man who had to travel around the kingdom, visiting troops in the field, it was practical. As for the rest, his threadbare old bachelor furniture was more than twenty years older than Anne, and he wasn’t about to give it up now.

Seated together on his sagging couch, they had several rounds of whiskey. Then they had sex on his big, blue Sahasran carpet (a wedding gift from his wife), followed by another drink. Finally, as dawn approached, they gave up any hope of sleeping and switched to coffee.

Broderick sat staring into the fire, while Anne perched by his arm, reading aloud to him from Adler’s The Tragedy of King Otto. It was an unusually erudite choice for her, and he wondered if this was her attempt at picking something topical. Otto, of course, being the Odelandic king who had blundered into war and lost half his country to the first King of Myrcia. The connection was clear enough to Broderick, but he wasn’t sure if Anne saw it.

They were nearing the climax of the third act, when a knock came, soft and quick. Shifting Anne slightly, Broderick went to the door to find Sir William Aitken standing there. Even at the best of times, William’s face, drawn and pinched like a starving rat’s, was never a sight to gladden the heart. But now there was an air of dreadful solemnity in the man’s expression that made Broderick shiver, even though he had been expecting this visit for the better part of a week.

My lord, said William, in his low, rasping voice, the king is dead.

After a quick check to see no one was lurking in the hall to overhear them, Broderick waved the knight into the apartment. You’re sure about this? He held up the coffee pot by way of making an offer.

No thank you, my lord, William said.

He looked briefly at Anne, who now slouched into Broderick’s overstuffed chair. Broderick gestured for him to continue.

I waited in the servants’ stairwell near the Gold Parlor, as you requested, and I heard Lord Aldred give the news to the chancellor.

What news is this? asked Anne, flopping over and looking up at them, with her dimpled little chin resting on the arm of the chair. William pursed his lips and looked away.

The king is dead, said Broderick softly.

Many people would try to feign grief at that news today. Anne was not one of them.

Oh, really? she said, jumping up and grabbing the whiskey bottle from the table. A toast, then? No? Well, maybe one for me. Edgar and his family had never warmed to Anne, and she—simple soul that she was—had taken it very much to heart. She took a sip, shuddered, and smiled at Broderick. Does this mean you’re going to be king now?

Broderick took the bottle away from her and put it back on the sideboard. Anne, I think you should go up to your room now. And if you choose to come down again today, I would suggest a black dress.

Good idea. I’ll see you later then.

When she was gone, Broderick turned back to William. I suppose you’d better tell my wife, assuming she hasn’t heard.

Yes, my lord. William started toward the hallway and the little-used door that connected Broderick’s rooms to those of his wife, Muriel.

Not there, said Broderick. I think she might be..., he cleared his throat, somewhat harder to find. Do your best, though, if you could.

I will find her, my lord. William bowed and then slipped noiselessly away into the shadows of the corridor.

Different tools for different jobs, thought Broderick, as he ducked into his dressing room to pull on a black tunic and his formal sword, the one with rubies in the hilt.

Another quick cup of coffee, still bracingly hot, before he left the palace and headed across the snowy yard to the guard barracks. There he found Colonel Sir Volker Rath, the chief knight of his retinue, on duty. Rath was a small, wiry man, gone somewhat to seed. He was loyal and smart, but also unimaginative. Where Sir William was a stiletto, the colonel was a war hammer.

Broderick broke the news, and as he had anticipated, Rath received it with a complete lack of visible emotion. Very well, sir, he said. What are your orders?

Come with me.

They mounted up, and then they rode down the long, winding road into the city. At the foot of the soaring castle hill, Hafoc Street was still empty. No messengers or squires were running back and