“Don’t worry, Brail. I won’t be sending assassins to Cestaar’s Hills any time soon.” He paused, eyeing the duke. “Nor will I be throwing you in my dungeons, as you suggested before. Fool or not, you showed some courage coming here today. And I admire the loyalty you’ve shown your friends. In times like these, a loyal man is more valuable than gold.”

“Thank you, my liege.”

“You’re free to go when you like, but the nights get cold this time of year. Why don’t you take a chamber on the west side of the castle. That’s where the queen will put your Qirsi.”

Brail stood, sensing that the king had just ended their conversation. “Very good, my liege. Again, my thanks.”

He stepped away from the table, and started toward the doorway leading out of the great hall.

“What about your Qirsi, Brail?”

The duke stopped and faced the king once more. “My liege?”

“Do you trust her?”

“I brought her with me, my liege, so I must trust her some. But I never told her why we were riding to Solkara.”

Carden nodded once, but said nothing. A moment later, he raised his goblet again, as if bidding the duke goodnight.

“Forgive me for asking, my liege,” the duke said. “But are you well?”

“Am I well?” the king repeated. He emptied his goblet again. “Do you fear for me, Orvinti?”

“I am your loyal subject, my liege. Like any good Aneiran, I wish for the good health and heart of my king.”

Carden poured more wine, smiling thinly. “Of course you do.” He took a long drink, nearly draining his goblet once more. “It’s not your concern, Brail. For all matters that pertain to you and your people, I’m well enough.”

“Yes, my liege,” Brail said, knowing better than to pursue this any further. He turned once more to leave.

“Brail.”

He looked back at the king.

“Don’t ever come here unannounced again. I’m not one of your earls to be caught unawares. If you ever again arrive at my gates without first sending a messenger, I’ll crush you as I would an attacking army. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, my liege.”

The king stared at him a moment longer, then shifted his chair so that he faced the fire and raised his goblet to his lips.

Maybe he should have been angry. No matter the answer Brail expected him to give, the question itself bordered on impudence. Add to that the duke’s admission that he hoped to glean something from their talk-as if a king might just give away information without intending it-and Carden would have been justified in having the man garroted right there in the great hall.

For an instant he had been tempted to do just that. It might have taught Tebeo, Benin, and the others a lesson. A frightened duke was a timid duke, and in these times Carden felt far more comfortable knowing that his dukes feared him. He understood, however, that a king could take this too far. While Chago’s murder might have tamed his more rebellious dukes, killing Brail as well would only serve to make him appear scared. The last thing he needed was for all Aneira to know how frightened he had grown these last few turns.

Besides, Brail was far more valuable to him alive than he ever could have been as a cautionary corpse. Despite his friendship with Chago and Tebeo, the duke had proven himself loyal to the crown. Indeed, he had managed to maintain ties to both House Bistan and House Solkara, no small feat given how much Carden and Chago hated one another. The king needed allies just now, particularly those who had mastered the finer points of statecraft. For Carden had not, and the duke might well be his only bridge to those nobles who hated him.

Now more than ever, he needed such a bridge. Because the truth was, he had nothing to do with Chago’s murder. Had he wished for the duke’s death? Of course, a hundred times over. Had he come within a hairs-breadth of giving such an order? Again, more times than he could count. But the words never passed his lips, and angry as he was with Chago’s fulminations about the lightering fees and wharfages, he viewed them as an annoyance, not as a threat to his power. No one in all Aneira could have been more astonished than he to learn of the assassination, particularly when it became clear that the duke had been garroted. Still, only when he heard of the scrap of leather found in the dead duke’s hand did the king fully grasp the implications of Chago’s murder.

Just a few moments before, when Brail asked if he had heard rumors of a Qirsi conspiracy, Carden nearly laughed aloud. Who hadn’t heard such talk? A person couldn’t go anywhere in the Forelands without hearing of the Qirsi threat. No one seemed to know what the Qirsi wanted, or which of the white-hairs were involved, but that didn’t stop people from talking. For all he had heard, however, the king never thought that the Qirsi would strike at him. Yet that was just what they had done. Chago was dead, but Carden had no doubt that he had been their target. Nor could he deny that their aim had been true. As he told Brail, he couldn’t very well admit to all the Forelands that he had allowed himself to be made a fool. He knew that they were responsible, that the land was under attack by the sorcerers, but to raise the alarm among his people was to humiliate himself. They wanted him weakened, so he accepted the blame for Chago’s death and made himself appear strong. They wanted his dukes and his people to hate him so that when they came back to finish him off, like a hunter circling back to kill a wounded stag, no one in Aneira would come to his aid.

He grinned darkly, his eyes still fixed on the low fire smoldering in the hearth. Let them try, he thought. Let them bring their armies and their magic. If they believe one dune’s death is enough to destroy me, they know nothing of House Solkara. He had been hated for a long time now. It no longer bothered him.

Carden lifted his goblet, only to find that it was empty again.

“More wine!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the ceiling and walls of his great hall.

After a few moments a young servant appeared carrying two flasks, one holding Sanbiri red, and the other the golden honey wine that was served after the main meal. Carden couldn’t remember which he had been drinking most recently.

“I didn’t know which to bring,” the boy said, cowering as he approached the table.

“Both,” the king said, sitting forward and gesturing for the boy to move faster. “Now leave me alone.”

“But the hall-”

Carden grabbed the red and filled his goblet. “You can clean tomorrow,” he said facing the fire again. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The boy bowed quickly and hurried out of the hall, closing the heavy oak door behind him.

The king took a long drink and closed his eyes, feeling the room pitch for a moment, as if he were on a merchant ship sailing the Scabbard. It was late to be drinking, but he wanted to be certain that Chofya was asleep before he returned to his chambers. On most nights like this he might have gone in search of one of his wife’s court ladies to pass the time. But he had no more interest in a tryst than he did in his marriage bed. Not tonight.

He should have been thinking about Chago, and the white-hairs, and how he would crush them when they brought their army to Aneira. Perhaps he should have been confiding in Brail. With Chago’s death, Orvinti had become the most powerful duke in the land.

Yet, his mind kept returning to his conversation with the castle surgeon earlier that day.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Kalyi, his only daughter, was nearly ten now, and Chofya hadn’t been with child since. In his mind, Carden had blamed the queen for this. But he could no longer ignore the fact that there were no bastards either. Surely if it was her, there would have been bastards. The surgeon agreed, suggesting that his seed was defective in some way. “Sterile.” That was the word he used.