Kitabı oku: «The Valisar Trilogy»
Tyrant’s Blood
FIONA MCINTOSH
VALISA: BOOK TWO
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.voyager-books.com
Published by HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers2009
Copyright © Fiona McIntosh 2009
Cover design by © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com
Fiona McIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2009 ISBN: 9780007301911
Version 2019-07-29
For Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Marianne D’Arrigo, Margo Burns, Michelle King, Willa Michelmore.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
Epilogue
Glossary
Acknowledgments
BOOKS BY FIONA MCINTOSH
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
‘Hello, Reg,’ she said as she approached. What an old-fashioned name Reginald was for someone his age; it didn’t suit him at all.
‘I thought you’d come,’ he said, not looking up.
She loved his voice and his economy with words. Reg had always been able to comfort her even when he was silent, which was most of the time. ‘Can I sit with you?’
She knew he smiled but he wouldn’t face her. Her question did not require an answer, nor would he waste the breath to give her one. ‘How are you?’ she said, sighing as she lowered herself next to him.
‘Same as yesterday.’
‘Grouchy, then.’
‘Not for you.’
‘I’ll take you in any mood, Reg, you know that.’
He looked around at her and after the unhappy morning she’d just had, which included watching a patient die, she felt instantly comforted and secure to see his sad, gentle face, buried beneath his straggly beard and the grime of his working day. She had long suspected that Reg liked to hide behind his longish, nutbrown hair, his hat, even that wretched beard, but try as he might, he could never hide his eyes. Intelligence—far more than he let on—lurked within those grey-green eyes that noticed everything and yet invited few people into his life, for he kept them mostly lowered when others were around. Now they looked at her; vaguely amused but above all knowledgeable. He had secrets, but then he was a secretive sort—everything about Reg was a mystery. The nurses cringed whenever she mentioned him, variously describing him as rude, deranged or creepy. He was none of those things. Not to her, anyway.
‘A death?’ he asked as she was staring at him.
How could he know her that well? It was infuriating sometimes. The tide of emotion she’d kept at bay rose but she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. If her training had taught her anything it had taught her to hold part of herself back from patients, or risk being swallowed by misery. But there was more to not showing her sorrow. In her quietest of moments she worried that she was a cold person; someone who let few past her guard. The truth was, she didn’t particularly want to share her life with anyone. Reg didn’t count, of course. He was a stranger she’d befriended so many years ago she couldn’t remember her time in the hospital when he was not roaming the botanical gardens, ever near, always available to give her a few minutes, always able to say the right things…even when he wasn’t actually speaking. Something was missing in her for sure—the lonely gene, perhaps…the one that triggered normal people to go in search of others and make friends. She obviously didn’t possess that gene. It was as if she were a misfit, walking around a world of people she didn’t feel she was a part of. She looked like everyone, talked like everyone, even to some degree acted like them. But there was a hole somewhere—a divide she couldn’t bridge between herself and everyone else. Reg was her curious lifeline, for he too was a misfit and seemed to understand even though they never discussed such intimacies.
And so she went through the motions of life—always had…even with her parents. For many years she’d thought this was simply because she was adopted. It bothered her to the point where she’d even taken some therapy for it but she knew in her heart that this was not a learned response—something she had reacted to on discovering her adoption. No, this was deep. It was in the blueprint that had made her who she was. And its particular presence in her DNA or whatever it was, meant she didn’t feel fully connected to anyone except Reg, the hospital groundsman.
‘Yes,’ she answered, finally able to accept that Jim Watkins was no longer of this life.
He said nothing.
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed but it came out as a soft groan, hugging herself as another pang of guilt reached through her body and twisted in her gut. She was answering a question he hadn’t asked and yet they both knew the question existed, hanging between them.
She began to explain, even though he hadn’t requested any further information. ‘I try not to choose, Reg. I have to be careful.’
‘Save all.’
‘I can’t. I’m different enough already; can you imagine what the media would do if it cottoned on to this?’
He shrugged.
She gave a mocking half-smile. ‘Proper journalists are just the tip of the iceberg. The gutter press and popular magazines, the hacks and mischief makers and those awful revelation shows that masquerade as current affairs,’ she said, mugging at him, ‘they would just slurp this up.’
He shook his head now, slightly amused, mostly baffled.
‘They’d never leave me alone, Reg.’
‘You’re looking thin.’
‘That’s a joke coming from you.’
‘I could eat a horse and it wouldn’t show.’
‘You’re lying. I know you so much better than you think. We’re thin, Reg, because we’re both hollow. Neither of us are filled with anything except a strange misery. I recognised it in you the moment I met you—the moment you walked into my life and tripped me.’
‘I didn’t trip you,’ he growled gently.
‘How else would you describe it?’
‘I tripped, and stumbled into you.’
‘And stopped me from going to see the clairvoyant at the Otherworlds festival.’
‘Rubbish. We were strangers. How could I have any hold over you?’
‘We weren’t strangers. Even if we’d never met I’ve always had the curious feeling that we’ve known each other all my life.’
He made a scoffing sound, offered her half of the orange he’d laboriously peeled while they’d been talking. She took it, inhaling the fresh scent of citrus surrounding them.
‘How old are you, Reg?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She laughed.
He looked at the segment of orange in his hand. ‘It’s true. I’ve lived too long,’ he said, looking down. ‘So I’ve never really known.’
‘Well, beneath all this fuzz,’ she said, tugging at his beard, ‘you look about mid thirties.’
‘And you’re just twenty and considered a genius, so you already know what it is to have that kind of attention levelled at you,’ he replied, returning to their previous topic.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘They didn’t leave me alone for almost a year when they discovered I’d qualified for Medicine so young. It’s all quietened down again. Now I’m just another intern at another big city hospital.’
‘And uncannily, often inexplicably, saving lives.’
‘Listen, I want everyone to just accept that I have talent and I developed really early. I can’t help that. The fact that I have a sixth sense for patients can’t be helped either but I don’t want to turn it into a sideshow and that’s what it would become if we continue down the pathway you suggest. The hospital will become suspicious, the community will start to request only me for all procedures and the media will start to hail me as some sort of messiah.’
‘Perhaps you are.’
‘Stop it!’ she said, flicking him with the back of her hand.
She ate the orange, enjoying the tart explosion in her mouth and they sat in an easy silence for a few minutes and watched the world of the gardens go by—mothers pushing prams, dogs walking their owners, couples canoodling in the early autumn warmth.
‘But how come we’re so comfortable together, Reg? Do you think it’s because we’re both orphans?’
‘Because we’re friends.’
‘Name another friend that you have.’
‘I don’t have any and don’t say you don’t either, because I’ve seen you with them.’
‘Spying on me, eh?’
He gave her a disdainful sideways glance.
She tossed some pith of the orange she’d peeled off into the nook of the tree where they sat side by side. ‘You’ve seen me with colleagues and acquaintances. You’ve not seen me with a friend. The only friend I have is you. Being with you is when I’m honest with myself and can be truly myself.’
‘Then I’m privileged.’
‘So explain why that is.’
‘Because I’m such excellent company.’
She gasped. ‘You’re no company at all. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You hold long, difficult silences,’ she nodded when he was about to say something, ‘not with me, I’ll grant you, but even during the most normal small talk you manage to make whoever is with you feel incredibly awkward. I’ve watched you. No eye contact, no smiles, mainly shrugs and grunts. You terrify women.’
He shrugged as if to prove her point. ‘It’s my special skill.’
‘I wish I understood you.’
He risked placing a hand on hers, then took it away quickly, as if burned. ‘You do. And in doing so, you understand yourself.’ Reg stood, helped her up. ‘We’re birds of a feather, us two. Just accept that we’re the loners of the world and we’re lucky to have each other.’
She nodded. Gave him a brief hug; knew it made him self-conscious but lingered anyway. ‘Thanks, Reg.’
‘People will talk,’ he said, pulling away.
‘Let them. I already feel like I’m being watched.’
Reg frowned; in his expression was a question.
‘Can’t explain it,’ she sighed. ‘But I have this frequent feeling that someone is watching me—you know—hiding and eavesdropping.’
He gave her a soft smile. ‘He’s probably in love with you but you’re so unapproachable he doesn’t know how to talk to you.’
‘Oh really? And you’d know how that feels, would you?’
Reg grinned sadly and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll bring more than an orange.’
‘It’s a date. Bring chocolate,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Bye,’ he replied softly and Corbel de Vis of Penraven lifted his hand in farewell to the gifted young intern who had no idea that she was royalty—a princess in exile—or that her healing skills were based on magic she brought with her from another plane, certainly another age…or perhaps most importantly of all, that she was the woman he loved.
1
The man had been staring out of the window, watching the trees for movement but he turned at the knock. ‘Come,’ he called and waited while his private aide entered, balancing a tray. He frowned. ‘You didn’t have to—’
‘I know, my lord,’ the aide replied. ‘But have a cup anyway.’
He sighed. ‘There’s still no sign of my raven,’ he added in a grumpy tone.
‘He’ll return,’ the aide replied evenly. ‘He always does.’ He set the tray down. ‘He’s obviously very familiar with the region now, and feels comfortable to be away that long. It’s blossomtide, emperor. I imagine all birds are busy at their business.’
Loethar nodded gloomily. ‘How is it down there, Freath?’
‘Exactly as you’d imagine. Very lively—the leading families do enjoy this get-together and try hard to balance its political agenda with the equally important social binding. Even though this is the empire’s third “Gathering” there’s still that lingering tension. The Droste family is being snubbed as usual, but they’re only marginally less happy than Cremond.’
Loethar lifted a brow in a wry expression. ‘Well, at least they’re all equal now. There are no royals, other than myself. Ah, there’s that smile, Freath. What does it mean today?’
Freath bowed his head once in acknowledgement. ‘Apologies, my lord. But nothing has truly changed for the Denovian people. There may be no royal lines acknowledged as such but the new compasses, as you’ve denoted them, are still paying homage to Penraven.’
Loethar nodded. ‘They’ve forgiven me, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘No, Emperor Loethar, I don’t,’ Freath said gently. ‘Not even a decade can fully heal their perceptions of the wrongs. But I hasten to assure that you’ve certainly gone a long way towards leaving only scars, not open, festering wounds. You’ve been a generous benefactor to all the leading families, who still enjoy plenty of privilege and status—they can hardly complain.’
‘Indeed. I’ve not interfered too much either in the running of their compasses.’
‘And that’s another reason why they appear so tolerant and will increasingly trust you, my lord. A new dynasty is about to begin and enough of them dread a second war so much that they will support your child with loyalty.’
Loethar smiled grimly. ‘I can’t wait for my son to be born.’ Then he sighed. ‘And how is the empress?’
‘Grumbly, sir, for want of a better word.’
‘Gown not right, hair not right, belly too big, drinks too sour, food too bitter?’
‘Husband too distant,’ Freath added.
Loethar’s eyes flashed up to regard his aide’s. It even baffled him at times how he permitted this dour man such familiarity. Even now he didn’t fully trust the former aide to the previous royal family, but he believed Freath was the most intelligent of all the people that lurked around him on a daily basis. He appreciated the man’s insight, dry wit, directness and agile mind. When he compared that to his brute of a half-brother, who was his Second, there was little wonder—for him anyway—as to why he not only permitted but quietly protected Freath’s position. ‘Should I be worried?’ he asked, glibly, yet privately eager to hear the man’s opinion.
‘No, my lord. But if you want your household life to be less volatile it might pay to give the empress more attention. She is, after all, with child and feeling vulnerable.’
‘How do you know, Freath?’ Loethar sighed and took the goblet that his aide offered him.
‘I spent years around a pregnant queen, my lord. Iselda lost quite a few babies but I know during her confinements she was generally irritable. She was no doubt anxious—and for good reason, having lost so many—but also worried that Brennus would stop finding her attractive.’
Loethar made a brief noise of scorn. ‘I find that very hard to believe. Perhaps if you hadn’t killed her, I could have married her!’
‘I do hope the walls don’t have ears, sir,’ Freath said dryly and Loethar gave him a wry glance, knowing they were both well aware of Valya’s unpredictable tantrums. ‘Brennus was butter around her.’
‘Is that so?’
‘“Besotted” is probably the right word. Few couples achieve such devotion.’
Loethar grunted. Freath’s counsel was no comfort at all. In fact, it served only to alienate him further. Marriage to Valya was a trial. Since the lavish wedding that he’d had to force himself to get through, she had become insatiable for power and wealth, especially the outward trappings of both. He understood why: she was proclaiming to the former Set people that while they had once gossipped and tittered behind her back at the reneging of the Valisar betrothal, now she was empress they were required to pay her homage. And once she delivered Loethar his heir at last, her position was truly sealed.
‘Well, Valya’s had a lot of unhappiness in her life. And not falling pregnant for so long has been a heavy burden for her. But that is changed now. Perhaps our son will bring her enough joy to leave her darkness behind.’
Freath straightened. ‘You told me once that our empress had bravely defied man, beast and nature to find you on the plains but I cannot account for the significant gap of years between Brennus deserting their troth and my lady re-appearing in Penraven a decade ago.’
‘It is of no harm for you to know, I suppose. Valya’s father blamed her for Brennus’s rejection, even though she hadn’t seen her husband-to-be for more than a year. The king sent his only daughter and heir to a convent that nestled within Lo’s Teeth, all but imprisoning her with the nuns. She admitted to me a long time ago that she was sure she turned mad for a while—several years probably. And while time scarred over her wounds, it never quelled her fury.’ He stretched, reached for his glass on the weaven table nearby. ‘She escaped.’ He yawned. ‘And then came looking for the Steppes people. She made it through those mountains alone. Impressive.’
Freath paused, considering this. Loethar waited, sipping his wine. ‘So…’ the aide began, frowning. ‘Was the attack the empress’s idea, my lord? This is old history now—it can’t matter if you share it.’
‘It was no one’s idea in particular,’ Loethar lied. ‘I was a rebellious man, not satisfied with leading the Steppes people and wanting a whole lot more than the scrubby plains and the occasional visit from Set traders who felt they were superior to us. And then along came this striking woman out of nowhere, half-starved and with a rage to suit my own. She gave voice to what I was already thinking.’
‘And history was made, my lord,’ Freath said lightly.
Loethar sipped his wine again and turned away to regard the view out of the window. ‘Seems hard to believe it was a decade ago that we stormed Brighthelm. I feel as if I belong here.’
Freath blinked. ‘You do, my lord.’
‘We’ve integrated well, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘Yes, my lord, surprisingly well.’
‘So many mixed marriages,’ Loethar continued. ‘I’m very glad to see that the mingling of bloods has begun.’
‘General Stracker might not agree,’ Freath added, conversationally.
‘He’s short-sighted, Freath. Most of the Denovian people would be enriching the soil if it had been left to him. There’d be no one left to make an empire,’ Loethar replied, yet again wishing his half-brother had even a fraction of his aide’s insight. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he nodded at Freath’s enquiring look.
Freath opened the door and spoke briefly. Then closed it again, turning to Loethar. ‘It’s time to go, my lord.’
Loethar began buttoning his midcoat. Freath dutifully held out the jacket. ‘I hate all this formal wear, Freath.’
‘I know you do, my lord, but it’s necessary. Can’t have you looking like a barbarian.’ They both smiled at the quip. ‘What news from the north, sir?’
Loethar shrugged, allowing Freath to quickly do up his jacket while he struggled with his collar. ‘All quiet for now. We’ve had patrols moving through the forest. The notorious highwayman and his daring minions elude me but we’ve silenced them for a while. There’s been no activity in the region for several moons.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a bang at the door.
Freath frowned but Loethar inclined his head. The aide moved to the door and opened it.
‘I need to speak with him,’ a brusque voice demanded.
‘It’s General Stracker, my lord,’ Freath announced, as the other man pushed past him into the room.
‘Stracker. Speak of the devil!’ Loethar said amiably. ‘I was just telling Freath here that you were up north and all was quiet.’
Stracker grinned a sly smile. His green tatua slid in tandem, widening across his round, thickset face. ‘Not so quiet any longer.’
Loethar stopped grimacing at himself in the mirror and turned his attention to his general. ‘What’s occurred?’
‘We might have our elusive outlaw.’
Loethar’s mouth opened in surprise and then he too smiled. ‘Tell me.’
Freath quietly set about pouring the two men a cup of wine, unobtrusively serving it and then melting back into the room to stand silently. Though he wasn’t intruding Loethar was aware the aide could hear everything. It didn’t matter. He would discuss most of this with Freath anyway.
‘I can’t confirm what you want to hear—not yet anyway—but one of the men, and we are almost sure it’s one of the outlaws, took an arrow wound.’
‘Faris?’
‘We think it could be.’
‘So he’s wounded and got away,’ Loethar demanded.
‘That’s the sum of it,’ Stracker confirmed, seemingly unfazed by the emperor’s intensity.
‘What makes you say you almost have him, then? Simply because you’ve wounded a man who could just belong to his cohort!’ Loethar gave a sound of disgust and drained his cup.
‘Not so fast, brother. Hear me out,’ Stracker said, cunning lacing his tone. ‘My men tell me that the wounded man took the arrow in the thigh. Now I’m sure even you would agree that in this situation it would be every man for himself.’
There was an awkward pause until Loethar grudgingly nodded. ‘What of it?’
Stracker grinned. ‘Not in this instance. Our soldiers confirmed that the renegades rallied around the wounded man, almost setting up a human shield. They half-carried, half-ran him away from our men. They’re clever and fast, I’ll give them that, and they know the ways and means of the forest better than our men ever could. They disappeared faster into the shadows of the great trees than our soldiers could scramble up the hill.’
‘What’s your point?’ Loethar hated sounding so thick-headed and he knew it was disappointment making his comprehension sluggish.
Stracker clearly delighted in his slowness. ‘Ask Freath, I’m sure he understands.’ He casually took a long draught from his cup.
Loethar glanced at Freath, who obliged, tension in his voice. ‘I suspect, my lord, that General Stracker is implying that the man was important enough for the others to risk their own capture or death.’
‘Exactly,’ Stracker followed up, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.
Freath sounded awfully alarmed, Loethar thought, but he turned back to Stracker.
‘But you let them get away,’ he said, his voice quiet and suddenly threatening.
‘No, I didn’t, brother. I wasn’t there. Had I been, I would have given chase until my heart gave out, but the captain in charge decided it was prudent not to venture deeper into the forest with only five men. He knew we would want this information and so I now have it and have brought it to you. But in the meantime I had Vulpan taken to the spot.’
This time Loethar had no struggle in understanding his brother’s meaning. ‘Inspired.’
‘Thank you,’ the huge man said, deigning to incline his head in a small bow.
‘I’m impressed, Stracker. So what now?’
‘We wait for news. We will find him, brother. Trust me.’ Loethar did not resist his general’s friendly tap on his face, for it was meant affectionately, but he despised it. Carefully, however, he kept his expression even as the general excused himself.
‘Enjoy the nobles,’ Stracker said, smiling ironically as he left.
Loethar stared at the open doorway absently until Freath closed the door. ‘Freath, have I told you about Vulpan yet?’
‘No, my lord. Perhaps you’ll enlighten me now,’ the aide said, returning to his previous task of brushing lint from the emperor’s shoulder.
‘He’s one of our Vested. It’s a strange talent but he only has to taste a person’s blood to know that person again.’
Freath stood back from Loethar, his forehead creased in amused puzzlement.
Loethar held up a hand with helpless resignation as he swung around. ‘I know, I know. But there’s no accounting for these Vested. Some possess enchantments that defy imagination.’
‘You mean his taste of blood works in the same way that a dog can trace a smell?’
Loethar grinned. ‘I suppose. He never gets it wrong, Freath. We’ve tested him time and again…even tried to trick him.’
Freath frowned. ‘So he has tasted the blood of the wounded outlaw.’
Loethar nodded. ‘Why would they rally around the man unless it was Faris? There is no one else of any importance in that cohort.’ He noticed Freath blink, but continued, ‘And some day the outlaw will slip up and Vulpan will deliver him to me. I am a patient man.’
‘Incredible,’ Freath remarked, shaking his head as he stacked the cups on the tray. ‘And this Vulpan is loyal, sir?’
Loethar shrugged. ‘The magic is not in doubt.’
‘Is Kilt Faris that important?’ Freath asked, reaching to do up the emperor’s top button.
Loethar raised his chin. ‘Yes. He challenges me.’
‘He did the same to Brennus before you, sir.’
‘Is that supposed to reassure me, Freath?’
The aide straightened his lord’s jacket, moving behind him. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I meant only that Faris is a gnat—a vexing irritant—who thinks stealing the royal gold is somehow not the same crime as stealing from the good folk of Penraven.’
‘Precisely, which is why I wish to hunt him down.’
Loethar’s eyes narrowed as he heard the aide suck in a breath that sounded too much like exasperation.
‘If you’ll forgive me, my lord? May I offer a recommendation?’
‘You usually do, Freath. Make it quick.’
Freath cleared his throat as he returned to face his superior. ‘Let me escort you down, my lord, we can talk as we walk. We really must go.’
Loethar nodded and Freath moved to hold the door open. ‘After you, sir.’
They moved through Brighthelm side by side. Loethar was sure the man was far too sharp to have ignored that the emperor permitted him equal status—if not in title, then certainly in access—to any of his closest supporters. Even Dara Negev, who was showing no signs that her god was preparing to claim her, still maintained the old ways of walking a few steps behind the man of her household. But it must be two anni now that Loethar had given up talking over his shoulder to Freath and insisted the man walk next to him when discussing state business. Though Loethar’s mother, half-brother and even Valya had haughtily mentioned on many an occasion that Freath couldn’t appreciate the honour, Loethar was convinced that Freath not only appreciated the shift but quietly enjoyed the privilege.
They approached the grand staircase, walking down a corridor of magnificent tapestries depicting the former kings of Valisar.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Freath continued. ‘Returning to our discussion, I was simply going to suggest that you should consider raising people’s taxes in and around the northern area. Chasing through the Deloran Forest is time-consuming and a waste of your men’s resources. It also makes a fool of the emperor.’
Loethar’s head snapped to look at Freath. ‘He is mocking me?’
‘Tax those who protect and laugh at you, my lord. Tax the north. Any excuse will do. In fact, offer no excuse. Tell them the new tax is to cover the losses that Faris inflicts. Remind the north that it is their hard-earned, hard-paid taxes that are being stolen and if they won’t help you find him, they will certainly help repair his damage.’
Loethar smiled. ‘Very good, Freath. Very good indeed.’
He felt Freath shrug beside him. ‘I would call off your men immediately, my lord. You should make it appear as if you don’t care one way or the other, so long as you have the money due the empire. I would be happy to make that declaration for you, sire, should you need.’
‘Not frightened of being unpopular?’
Freath gave a snort of disdain. ‘They hated me a long time ago, Emperor Loethar. Nothing’s changed.’
‘I shall think on your idea.’
Freath bowed. ‘I shall let the empress know, my lord, that you and her guests await her.’
As Loethar moved into the grand salon to the heralding of trumpets, Freath strode up the stairs, feeling an old familiar tension twisting in his belly. Once out of sight from the ground level he took a moment alone on the landing to lean against the balustrade, taking two deep breaths to calm himself. He hadn’t felt like this in so many anni he’d nearly forgotten what it was to be poised on the precipice of death. Ten anni previous he’d been exposed to negotiating that very knife-edge daily. Though somehow he’d survived, his beautiful Genrie had not. The passing years had not made her loss any easier. He visited her unmarked grave frequently, and although it hurt his heart not to leave flowers—for he couldn’t be seen to be mourning her—he left behind his silent grief. Her death had bought his life, and what a strange, evil life it had become: forever lying, masquerading and patiently plotting.
The only surprise had been his helpless admiration—although he fought it daily—for the man he knew he should despise. He found it easy to hate General Stracker, to inwardly sneer at Dara Negev and to truly abhor the empress. But Loethar was not as simple. The man was actually every inch the born leader that Brennus had been. And if he had been born a Valisar rather than a Steppes barbarian, Freath knew they’d all be admiring him. Loethar was taking an approach with the Denovians that could only be congratulated. There was no doubting that the new emperor was very tough—but which sovereign wasn’t? None of the Valisars down the ages were known for being spineless. All were hard men, capable of making the most difficult of decisions. Any ruler who took a soft line with detractors would almost certainly perish. Freath often thought, hating himself as he did so, that if he had been in Loethar’s boots, there was little he would or could have done any other way.
