to observe it. Truth was I barely noticed them anymore. They were simply always there—watching me eat breakfast, studying me sword fighting with Grigfen in the armory; one always observed me as I slept, in case I were to die while dreaming and my last gasping sounds were worth recording.
Prince Ryo ne Vinton’s last words: gurgle gurgle.
Who would want to lose that?
The cleric wasn’t speaking.
Her red hood rested at the crown of her pale hair. Silver wings—the emblem of the Savak—painted across her brow, her dark red robe puddling around her chair, and a silver and glass sphere necklace tucked between her collarbones. Her face was flat, devoid of emotion, but I could not say that of the rest of the council. Sir Tomlinson crossed his arms, the general’s jaw pulsed tight, and Lord Reginal’s tongue peeked from the side of his false smile. A sign of his greed as well as his suspicion.
My mother watched me, not the cleric. And my father? My father sat like a spring wound tight, pinching the bridge of his nose, his foot tapping against the marble floor, his twisting mouth rebelling at the silence.
“What is your business here?” my father expelled, his voice rough and serious, like he only was to our enemies.
She stayed silent.
My father, the most powerful king in the world, asked her a direct question, and she sat in silence and the king did nothing but huff in impatience.
Mother waved her hand. “Perhaps you’d like something to drink?”
The cleric pressed her lips together. “Not until every chair is filled.”
Well, at least we knew she had the ability to make sounds.
The last chair stayed empty. By rights of the council it belonged to my uncle Edvarg, but as emissary for the Abbey of the Undergod, he wasn’t likely to show his face in order to appease the Savak. No matter how many times the king sent a messenger to the Abbey, he would not come to hear a heathen’s words.
It would be a council of five.
“Son.” The king gestured toward Uncle’s seat.
“Me?” I touched my chest. Tomlinson sighed, but the rest of the council seemed to soften with affection, looking at me much the way they did Mother’s pet cat, Chompsens. I cleared my throat. “Yes, Father?”
“Take your uncle’s seat, please.”
I bowed to the council, and I fought back a grin as I touched my forehead in a salute to the Historians. This I wanted them to record. I looked back at the king and in that moment, I saw my father. The man who always welcomed me to sit by him no matter how busy he was, who cheered at my tournaments even when I was bested, the man who told me that there was nothing I could do that would make him not love me.
And then in an instant something behind his eyes went blank, and he shifted from the man who was my father to the man who was my king. But I could handle this opportunity. All that I wanted, more than any win or tournament, was to see my father look at me with pride, the way I remembered.
I slid into the chair at Mother’s right.
“You must give me your kingdom,” the cleric said.
The council shared looks. Ridiculous. I laughed, and General Franciv gave a snort. Sir Tomlinson’s giant hands batted at poor Lord Reginal, but the scrawny little man was giggling so hard he didn’t notice. Mother pressed her fingers over her lips, trying to remain polite in case it wasn’t a joke.
It had to be, although the Savak were not known for their humor.
Their cunning, their betrayal, their strange religion? Yes, of course.
Humor? Not famously reported.
The cleric tipped her head to one side as if she did not understand our reaction. Her golden eyes seemed sharp in the light coming from the arched windows.
Father did not smile. “Is there a threat in your words?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Not in my words.” She pressed her lips in a tight grimace and reached into her long sleeves.
My father’s guards drew their weapons.
There, hidden behind swaths of red silk, was a bag, brown leather, tucked tight next to her body.
“In the future.”
My breath caught.
Out came a clay vase, sealed with wax. It thudded as she placed it on the table in front of her. She withdrew five small clay cups.
The guards did not put away their weapons.
We all eyed the vase … or pitcher, most likely. Filled with the only thing the Savak possessed that made this cleric