Iadon looked up from his ledgers with a barely masked scowl. “What more does Wyrn want? We already have a trade treaty with Fjorden.”
“His Holiness fears for the souls of your people, Your Majesty,” Hrathen said.
“Well, then, let him convert them. I have always allowed your priests complete freedom to preach in Arelon.”
“The people respond too slowly, Your Majesty. They require a push—a sign, if you will. Wyrn thinks it is time you yourself converted to Shu-Dereth.”
This time Iadon didn’t even bother masking the annoyance in his tone. “I already believe in Shu-Korath, priest. We serve the same God.”
“Derethi is the only true form of Shu-Keseg,” Hrathen said darkly.
Iadon waved a dismissive hand. “I care nothing for the squabbles between the two sects, priest. Go convert someone who doesn’t believe—there are still plenty of Arelenes who hold to the old religion.”
“You should not dismiss the offering of Wyrn so casually,” the gyorn warned.
“Honestly, priest, do we need to go through this? Your threats hold no weight—Fjorden hasn’t held any real influence for two centuries. Do you seriously think to intimidate me with how powerful you
used
to be?”
Hrathen’s eyes grew dangerous. “Fjorden is more powerful now than it ever was before.”
“Really?” Iadon asked. “Where is your vast empire? Where are your armies? How many countries have you conquered in the last century? Maybe someday you people will realize that your empire collapsed three hundred years ago.”
Hrathen paused for a moment; then he repeated his introductory nod and spun around, his cloak billowing dramatically as he stalked toward the door. Sarene’s prayers were not answered, however—he didn’t step on it and trip himself. Just before Hrathen left, he turned to shoot one final, disappointed look at the throne room. His gaze however, found Sarene instead of the king. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she could see a slight hint of confusion as he studied her unusual height and blond Teoish hair. Then he was gone, and the room burst into a hundred prattling conversations.
King Iadon snorted and turned back to his ledgers.
“He doesn’t see,” Sarene whispered. “He doesn’t understand.”
“Understand what, my lady?” Ashe asked.
“How dangerous that gyorn is.”
“His Majesty is a merchant, my lady, not a true politician. He doesn’t see things the same way you do.”
“Even so,” Sarene said, speaking quietly enough that only Ashe could hear. “King Iadon should be experienced enough to recognize that what Hrathen said—at least about Fjorden—was completely true. The Wyrns
are
more powerful now than they were centuries ago, even at the height of the Old Empire’s power.”
“It is hard to look past military might, especially when one is a relatively new monarch,” Ashe said. “King Iadon cannot fathom how Fjorden’s army of priests could be more influential than its warriors ever were.”
Sarene tapped her cheek for a moment in thought. “Well, Ashe, at least now you don’t have to worry about my causing too much unrest amongst Kae’s nobility.”
“I seriously doubt that, my lady. How else would you spend your time?”
“Oh, Ashe,” she said sweetly. “Why would I bother with a bunch of incompetent would-be nobles when I can match wits with a full gyorn?” Then, more seriously, she continued. “Wyrn picks his high priests well. If Iadon doesn’t watch that man—and it doesn’t seem like he will—then Hrathen will convert this city out from under him. What good will my sacrificial marriage do for Teod if Arelon gives itself to our enemies?”
“You may be overreacting, my lady,” Ashe said with a pulse. The words were familiar—it seemed that Ashe often felt a need to say them to her.
Sarene shook her head. “Not this time. Today was a test, Ashe. Now Hrathen will feel justified in taking action against the king—he has convinced himself that Arelon is indeed ruled by a blasphemer. He’ll try to find a way to overthrow Iadon’s throne, and Arelon’s government will collapse for the second time in ten years. This time it won’t be the merchant class that fills the void of leadership—it will be the Derethi priesthood.”
“So you are going to help Iadon?” Ashe said with an amused tone.
“He is my sovereign king.”
“Despite your opinion that he is insufferable?”
“
Anything
is better than Fjordell rule. Besides, maybe I was wrong about Iadon.” Things hadn’t gone
too
poorly between the two of them since that first embarrassing meeting. Iadon had practically ignored her at Raoden’s funeral, which had suited Sarene just fine; she’d been too busy watching for discrepancies in the ceremony. Unfortunately, the event had occurred with a disappointing level of orthodoxy, and no predominant noblemen had given themselves away by failing to show up or by looking too guilty during the proceedings.
“Yes …” she said. “Perhaps Iadon and I can get along by just ignoring each other.”
“What in the name of Burning Domi are you doing back in my court, girl!” the king swore from behind her.
Sarene raised her eyes to the sky in a look of resignation, and Ashe pulsed a quiet laugh as she turned to face King Iadon.
“What?” she asked, trying her best to sound innocent.
“You!” Iadon barked, pointing at her. He was understandably in a bad mood—of course, from what she heard, Iadon was rarely in a good mood. “Don’t you understand that women aren’t to come to my court unless they’re invited?”
Sarene blinked her eyes in confusion. “No one told me that, Your Majesty,” she said, intentionally trying to sound as if she didn’t have a wit in her head.
Iadon grumbled something about foolish women, shaking his head at her obvious lack of intelligence.
“I just wanted to see the paintings,” Sarene said, putting a quaver in her voice, as if she were on the brink of crying.
Iadon held his hand palm-forward in the air to forestall any more of her drivel, turning back to his ledgers. Sarene barely kept herself from smiling as she wiped her eyes and pretended to study the painting behind her.
“That was unexpected,” Ashe said quietly.
“I’ll deal with Iadon later,” Sarene mumbled. “I have someone more important to worry about now.”
“I just never thought I’d see the day when you, of all women, gave into the feminine stereotype—even if it was just an act.”
“What?” Sarene asked, fluttering her eyes. “Me, act?”
Ashe snorted.
“You, know, I’ve never been able to figure out how you Seons manage sounds like that,” Sarene said. “You don’t have noses—how can you snort?”
“Years of practice, my lady,” Ashe replied. “Am I truly going to have to suffer your whimpering every time you speak with the king?”
Sarene shrugged. “He expects women to be foolish, so I’ll be foolish. It’s much easier to manipulate people when they assume you can’t gather enough wits to remember your own name.”
“’Ene?” a sudden voice bellowed. “Is that you?” The deep, scratchy voice was oddly familiar. It was as if the speaker had a sore throat, though she had never heard someone with a sore throat yell so loudly.
Sarene turned hesitantly. An enormous man—taller, broader, pudgier, and more muscled than seemed possible—shoved his way through the crowd in her direction. He was dressed in a broad blue silken doublet—she shuddered to think of how many worms had toiled to make it—and wore the ruffle-cuffed trousers of an Arelish courtier.
“It is you!” the man exclaimed. “We thought you weren’t coming for another week!”
“Ashe,” Sarene mumbled, “who is this lunatic and what does he want with me?”
“He looks familiar, my lady. I’m sorry, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Ha!” the enormous man said, scooping her up into a bear hug. It was an odd feeling—her bottom half squished into his oversized gut while her face was crushed by his hard, well-muscled chest. She resisted the urge to whimper, waiting and hoping the man would drop her before she passed out. Ashe would probably go for help if her face started to change colors.
Fortunately, the man let go long before she asphyxiated, instead holding her by her shoulders at arms length. “You’ve changed. When I last saw you, you were only knee high.” Then he looked over her tall figure. “Well … I doubt you were ever
knee
high, but you were certainly no taller than a waist. Your mother always said you’d be a lanky one!”
Sarene shook her head. The voice was slightly familiar, but she couldn’t place his features. She usually had such a good memory for faces…. Unless….
“Hunkey Kay?” she asked hesitantly. “Gracious Domi! What happened to your beard?”
“Arelish nobles don’t wear beards, little one. I haven’t had one in years.”
It
was
him. The voice was different, the beardless face unfamiliar, but the eyes were the same. She remembered looking up at those wide brown eyes, always full of laughter. “Hunkey Kay,” she mumbled distractedly. “Where’s my present?”
Her uncle Kiin laughed, his odd scratchy voice making it sound more like a wheeze than a chortle. Those had always been the first words out of her mouth when he came to visit; her uncle brought the most exotic of gifts, delights that were extravagant enough to be unique even to the daughter of a king.
“I’m afraid I forgot the present this time, little one.”
Sarene blushed. However, before she could squeak out an apology, Hunkey Kay wrapped a large arm around her shoulder and began towing her out of the throne room.
“Come, you have to meet my wife.”
“Wife?”
Sarene asked with a shocked voice. It had been over a decade since she had seen Kiin, but she remembered one fact quite clearly. Her uncle had been a sworn bachelor and a confirmed rascal. “Hunkey Kay is
married
?”
“You aren’t the only one who has grown over the last ten years,” Kiin rasped. “Oh, and as cute as it is to hear you call me ‘Hunkey Kay,’ you’ll probably want to call me Uncle Kiin now.”
Sarene blushed again. “Hunkey Kay” had been the creation of a child unable to pronounce her uncle’s name.
“So, how’s your father doing?” the large man asked. “Acting properly regal, I assume.”
“He’s doing fine, Uncle,” she replied. “Though I’m sure he would be surprised to find you living in the court of Arelon.”
“He knows.”
“No, he thinks you left on one of your voyages and settled on one of the far islands.”
“Sarene, if you’re as quick-witted a woman as you were a girl, then you should have learned by now to separate the truth from the stories.”
The statement came like a bucketful of icy water. She vaguely remembered watching her uncle’s ship sail away one day and asking her father when Hunkey Kay was going to return. Eventeo’s face had been morose when he replied that this time Hunkey Kay would be taking a long, long voyage.
“But why?” she asked. “All this time you were living just a few days’ trip from home, and you never came to visit?”
“Stories for another day, little one,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Right now, you need to meet the monster of a woman who finally managed to capture your uncle.”
Kiin’s wife was hardly a monster. In fact, she was one of the most beautiful mature women Sarene had ever seen. Daora had a strong face with sharp, statuesque features and a well-styled head of auburn hair. She was not what Sarene would ever have placed with her uncle—of course, her most recent memories of Kiin were over a decade old.
Kiin’s large, castle-like mansion was not a surprise. She remembered that her uncle had been a merchant of some sort, and her memories were highlighted by expensive gifts and Kiin’s exotic clothing. He had not only been the younger son of a king, but he had also been an extremely successful businessman. Something he still was, appartently. He’d been out of the city on business until that morning, which was why she hadn’t seen him at the funeral.
The greatest shock was the children. Despite the fact that Sarene knew he was married, she just couldn’t reconcile her recollections of the unruly Hunkey Kay with the concept of fatherhood. Her preconceptions were neatly shattered the moment Kiin and Daora opened the door to the mansion’s dining hall.
“Father’s home!” called the voice of a young girl.
“Yes, Father’s home,” Kiin said with a suffering voice. “And no, I didn’t bring you anything. I’ve only been gone a few minutes.”
“I don’t care what you did or didn’t bring me. I just want to eat.” The speaker, a young girl about ten years old, had a very serious, adult-sounding voice. She wore a pink dress tied with white ribbon, and had a bob of stark blond hair on her head.
“When do you
not
want to eat, Kaise?” a little boy, who looked almost identical to the girl, asked with a sour look.
“Children, don’t squabble,” Daora said firmly. “We have a guest.”
“Sarene,” Kiin declared, “meet your cousins. Kaise and Daorn. The two biggest headaches in your poor uncle’s life.”
“Now, Father, you know you would have gone mad from boredom long ago without them,” a man said from the far doorway. The newcomer was of average Arelish height, which meant he was an inch or two shorter than Sarene, with a lean build and a strikingly handsome, hawkish face. His hair had been parted down the center and flopped down on either side of his face. A woman with black hair stood at his side, her lips slightly pursed as she studied Sarene.
The man bowed slightly to Sarene. “Your Highness,” he said with only a hint of a smile on his lips.
“My son Lukel,” Kiin explained.
“Your son?” Sarene asked with surprise. Young children she could accept, but Lukel was a few years older than she was. That meant …
“No,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Lukel is from Daora’s previous marriage.”
“Not that that makes me any less his son,” Lukel said with a broad smile. “You can’t escape responsibility for me that easily.”
“Domi himself wouldn’t dare take responsibility for you,” Kiin said. “Anyway, that’s Jalla next to him.”
“Your daughter?” Sarene asked as Jalla curtsied.
“Daughter-in-law,” the dark-haired woman explained, her speech thick with an accent.
“You’re Fjordell?” Sarene asked. The hair had been a clue, but the name and accent were giveaways.