I grabbed his arms, forcing him to look at me. “It doesn’t have to be this way between the kingdoms.”

A faint smile lit his face. “Yes, my princess, it does. It is how it’s always been and always will be, only now it will be us wielding power over them.”

He pulled away from my grip, and his gaze returned to his city, his chest puffing, his stature growing before my eyes. “It’s my turn now to sit on a golden throne in Morrighan and dine on sweet grapes in winter. And if any royals survive our conquest, it will give me great pleasure to lock them up on this side of hell to fight over roaches and rats to fill their bellies.”

I stared at the consuming power glistening in his eyes. It pumped through his veins instead of blood, and beat in his chest instead of a heart. My plea for compromise was babble to his ears, a language long erased from his memory.

“Well?” he asked.

A terrible greatness rolled across the land.

A new terrible greatness.

I said the only thing I could say. What I knew he wanted to hear. “You’ve thought of everything, sher Komizar. I’m impressed.”

And in a dark and frightening way, I was.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

RAFE

I hovered near the firepit in Hawk’s Pavilion pretending to warm my hands. Ulrix had given me changes of clothing, but they hadn’t included any gloves. It was just as well. It gave me an excuse to stand here with Sven, who had also “forgotten” to wear his gloves to the pavilion. We watched the keeper training the hawks. Orrin stood opposite us as a lookout for anyone who might approach.

“He has eight barrels in a cave down by the river,” Sven whispered, even though the nearest guards stood far behind us on the other side of the court. “He says he only needs four more.”

“How is he getting them?”

“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say Vendan justice would leave him fingerless.”

“His thievery better be flawless, because he’s going to need every finger to secure that raft.”

“He did acquire the rope honestly, thanks to the princess and the money she gave him. The kind of rope he needed can only be had in the jehendra, which would be far more difficult to lift things from, so thank the gods she’s good at cards.”

I thought about the card game and the blood I had sweat watching her play. Yes, thank the gods and her brothers, she is good.

“Jeb used patties to cover the rope up in the bottom of his cart and sneak it out to Tavish.” Sven held his hands closer to the flames and asked me about the Sanctum routines.

I told him more of what I had learned in these past weeks—what times the guards changed at the entrances, how many could be found in hallways at any given moment, when Lia was most likely not to be missed, the governors who were more amiable than others, those who tipped their mugs heavily, the Rahtan and chievdars he didn’t dare turn his back on, and where I had hidden weapons—three swords, four daggers, and a poleaxe.

“You pilfered weapons right under their noses? A poleaxe?”

“It just takes patience.”

“You? Patience?” Sven grunted.

I couldn’t blame him for his cynicism. I was the one who rode off with only a half-assed plan to guide us. I thought about the last several days and all the times I’d had to restrain my natural impulses, the agonizing waiting when all I wanted to do was act, weighing the satisfaction of a victorious moment against a lifetime with Lia, calculating every move and word to make sure it gave her and us the best possible chance. If there was a torture in hell crafted specifically for me, this was it.

“Yes, patience,” I said. It was a scar as painfully won as any in battle. I told him that Calantha and Ulrix were my primary guards and that Calantha missed nothing, so I had little opportunity around her, but after laying me flat several times and finding that I offered only a weak fight, Ulrix had grown satisfied that the emissary was not one to waste much worry over. Opportunities arose, and slowly I slipped one mislaid weapon after another into dark forgotten corners, to be retrieved and moved to another dark corner until I had them where I was sure no one would find them.

“No one missed them? Not even the poleaxe?”

“There are always a few swords set aside during late nights and card games in the Sanctum. When losers get nervous, they drink, and when they drink, they forget things. In the morning, servants return mislaid weapons to the armory. The poleaxe was luck. I saw it propped up against the sow pen for the better part of a day. When no one seemed to miss it, I tossed it behind the woodpile.”

Sven nodded with approval as if I were still his charge in training. “What about last night? Have you gotten any whiff of suspicions about the sword fight?”

“I fumbled. I lost. My shoulder drew first blood. By now that’s all they remember. Any skill with the sword is lost in the shadow of Kaden’s victory.”

We saw Orrin on the other side of the fire signaling us that someone was approaching, and we stopped talking.

“Morning, Governor Obraun. Feeding mice to the falcons?”

We turned. It was Griz. He spoke in Morrighese, which he had claimed he didn’t know. I looked at Sven, but he wasn’t responding. Instead the old curd had paled.

Orrin and I both knew something was wrong. Orrin began to draw his sword, but I waved him back. Griz wore two short swords, and his hands gripped the hilts of both. He stood too close to Sven for us to make a move. Griz grinned, soaking in Sven’s reaction. “After twenty-five years and that trophy crossing your face, I didn’t recognize you right off. It was your voice that gave you away.”