"Get to the point," Jared snarled. The brandy was taking much too long to reach his head, and he felt far too sober.

"As you wish, my king. Lord Monteith believes that the King of Trevath might be approachable for a similar alliance. Such an arrangement could be quite profitable, and might serve to deter some of the other kingdoms, which may not have yet seen the advantage in allying with your power."

"Not seen the advantage?" Jared roared. "Isencroft, Principality and Dhasson have recognized my traitor brother. I consider that a declaration of war. Only Eastmark has 'not seen the advantage.' But their silence to our approaches is an answer in itself." Now Jared could feel the brandy rising in his blood, filling him with a boldness which, of late, seemed more and more elusive.

"A thousand pardons, my king," Curane said, bowing low. "I hoped to bring you good tidings from Trevath. They are a wealthy and powerful nation, with an esteemed army. Such an alliance might show the others the error of their ways."

And it certainly wouldn't hurt your standing with their king, either, Jared thought cynically. "All of this is speculation," he snarled. "When their king is ready to sign a treaty, then he'll have my interest."

"Of course, my king," Curane said. His obsequiousness both pleased and annoyed Jared, and the king only barely restrained his temper, reminding himself of Curane's usefulness.

"And while you're in Trevath," Jared said, his words slurring as he finished the last of his flask. "Tell them to send better brandy. This year's batch was pig slop!" He hurled his empty flask into the fire.

"Of course, my king, as you wish," Curane said, with the same imperturbable smile he always wore. He backed away, bowing low, and made his exit. Alone, except for the guards that now always accompanied him, Jared watched the partygoers with detachment, feeling an odd mixture of disdain and jealousy. Disdain, for the trivial intrigues and the self-absorbed interests of the courtiers, and jealousy, because they bore none of the weight of the crown, nor the dangers of kingship.

Both disdain and jealousy were doubled when it came to Tris. Just the thought of his half-brother made Jared want another brandy. Tris, whose life had been as charmed from birth as Jared's had been cursed. Queen Serae could do no wrong in the eyes of the court, while even after Eldra's death, dark rumors persisted about Bricen's first wife. Jared had taken care of that. He'd noted since childhood who among the noblewomen had been uncharitable toward his mother's memory. They had been the first to die when he gained the power to make things right.

Eldra had been avenged, but it didn't bring her back. But a Summoner could, a Summoner who wasn't chained by weak concepts of rules and ethics. When the Obsidian King returned, adding his power as a Summoner to Arontala's magic, Arontala promised Jared that Eldra would return to take her rightful place beside him. Together, they would rule Margolan.

That was something Tris could never understand. Jared grabbed a tankard of ale from a passing vendor who bowed low and scurried away. He downed the ale in one long swallow, wishing it would go to his head. No, Tris never got passed from one servant to another, servants who barely noticed a small boy's existence. Tris had both mother and father; Bricen had doted on his second family the way he had never had time to do with his first. But Serae and Kait would both pay. Arontala had locked them away in the Orb. They would experience the torment they deserved.

Now Tris was the darling of the Winter Kingdoms. Jared spat to one side. He pushed his way through the crowd, and the partygoers scattered to clear a path for him as he strode through the throng. Staden had received Tris like a real king, instead of a boy with delusions of grandeur. Word had it that King Harrol of Dhasson and King Donelan of Isencroft had also recognized Tris as Margolan's rightful king—a travesty, considering that Jared was the first born and heir.

Tris had even inherited magic. Bava K'aa had always kept a watchful eye on Jared, and Jared had hated the old crone witch for it. He'd assumed it was because Serae was Bava K'aa's daughter and Tris her grandson. He'd stayed out of her way, hating how uncomfortable he felt around her, as if she could read his mind. That Bava K'aa let Tris and Carroway help in her study never bothered Jared at the time. He'd assumed the old witch was just using the two for free labor. Now, he understood. All those years, Bava K'aa had been training Tris, right under Jared's nose. Training him to seize the throne, to acquire immense power, to push Jared aside as Jared had always been pushed aside. Even then, they'd been plotting.

And then there was Kiara. Jared's fists clenched. She was his by right, by covenant. Kiara had been promised to him twenty years ago, when she was born. But Bricen had stalled, refusing Jared's demands to claim his bride when she turned sixteen, easily of marriageable age. Bricen had invented one reason after another to keep Jared from visiting Isencroft, keep Kiara from coming to Margolan, although by the betrothal contract, they were as good as wed already. Bricen had kept Kiara out of reach the same way he had always dangled the crown. Jared came to realize that something had changed in his father, that Bricen did not intend for his first-born son to take the throne. That was when Jared had decided to seize his own destiny.

Kiara and Tris added another humiliation, announcing their betrothal in defiance of the covenant. By ancient law, Jared now had the right— the duty—to have both of them put to death for treason and adultery. You got the childhood I never had. You got a mother—and father's attention. But I'll be damned if you think you'll steal what belongs to me!

"Careful that you don't take a chill, my king," a familiar voice said from behind him. Arontala's approach, as always, was completely silent.

"What do you want?" Jared snapped as Arontala fell into step beside him. Arontala's presence parted the crowd around them. Even the guards kept their distance. In the midst of the throng, they were utterly alone.

"I bring news, my king, from Principality."

"And?"

"Our assassin did not find his mark," Arontala reported. "He nearly killed one of the ruffians who accompany your brother, a smuggler who is not unknown to me. Sadly, the encounter was not fatal."

Jared wheeled on the mage, staggering from the brandy. "You promised results."

"And results we have, my king," Arontala replied. "Your brother—and King Staden—now realize that they are not safe from our reach."

"Not enough."

"There is more," Arontala remarked, almost off-handedly. "I understand, through a very reliable source, that the Blood Council convened in Principality for the purpose of determining whether vayash moru would be granted permission to fight against you. The majority of the Council gave their assent." Arontala held up a hand, staving off Jared's irate response. "This is in our favor."

"How?" Jared roared. Nearby partygoers shuddered, though none dared to look toward the angry king.

"Because, my king, it legitimizes what we have told the people about the vayash moru. When the people see vayash morn attacking mortals, we will not need to urge them to take their revenge. Yes,"

Arontala said with an unsettling smile. "This is a very good thing."

"The only good thing will be when my brother dangles from that noose." Jared pointed at the gibbet.

"Patience, my king. We're closer than ever to the Hawthorn Moon. Whatever grandiose dreams your brother may have, there is no time for him to move against us. In just a few months the Hawthorn Moon will be upon us, and we'll seize power that will last for generations to come."