Conrad glanced at his immobilized hand, then up at the bearded face. There was a moment of hesitancy. Then he nodded with a murky expression as if he had just woken up.
“Keep an eye on these two,” the king whispered to Leo as they watched Conrad struggle to return his dagger to its sheath.
“I’ll watch, but my growl is not as effective as yours. And I don’t have my sword.”
Amrath felt a small hand slip into his, and Ann gave a pleasant squeeze that said, Thank you.
The king surveyed the crowd. Being a head above helped. The throng had spread out since the toast, spilling into the dining hall, the ballroom, even the throne room. White-gloved stewards navigated the mob with silver trays over their heads. Percy Braga was in a corner speaking to Lord Valin and Sir Ecton.
“I think Percy is working at his own party,” Amrath told Ann.
“That’s good, isn’t it? Shows he’s dedicated.”
“Or ambitious.”
“Sounds like Simon,” Ann said.
“Simon’s an ass, but he’s smart. Smarter than I am.”
“Percy is smart too.”
“I know … that’s what worries me. I’m surrounded by geniuses.”
“Does that include me?”
“Especially you.” He eyed her with feigned suspicion and gave her hand a squeeze. “You’re more dangerous than the lot of them.”
Looking around the room, he couldn’t spot his son Alric, but Arista was seated near the fireplace, alone, reading.
She’s going to be another Clare if I don’t do something.
“Your Majesty!”
Amrath turned to see Bishop Saldur rushing at him in his dress robes of black and red. He had not seen the cleric in several months, but the old man never changed. Amrath would swear he looked exactly the same as he had when the king was a boy, only shorter. The bishop grew old, then just stopped changing. The elderly were like that. Children matured quickly, then hovered briefly in that sweet period of perfectly ripe youth. Soon after, the scourge of age set in like a disease. Hair lines slipped, bald spots revealed themselves, dark hair turned gray, stomachs grew, and skin sagged, but at some point there was nothing else to erode.
“Sauly, how are you? How was your trip to Ervanon? Is the Patriarch still alive?”
“Thank you for asking. His holiness is fine and the carriage ride exhausting. I only returned two days ago, and rushed all the way. I didn’t want to disappoint our new chancellor. What was going on with…” Saldur tilted his head toward Conrad. Leo had taken him by the arm and was leading him away with promises of better sources of drink than cider.
“Nothing, just too much celebration and not enough to eat.”
Saldur looked over his shoulder. “The shield again?”
Amrath smiled. “It wouldn’t be a party without at least one brawl.”
“That’s the kind of brawl that sparks a civil war.”
“House Jerl and House Red have been sparking for five hundred years. I won’t lose any sleep.”
Saldur straightened the wrinkles on his sleeves. “Your Majesty, I need to speak with you privately.”
“Something wrong?”
The old bishop lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m afraid so, and it concerns you and your family.”
“My family? What about them?”
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation in the upstairs chapel where I will be able to speak freely.”
“You act like we are among enemies.”
The bishop leaned close and in a low voice said, “If I am right, we most certainly are, and they are bent on royal blood.”
Bishop Saldur had always made Amrath uncomfortable—most religious people did. Amrath’s mother and father had been devoted members of the Nyphron Church. Given his contentious relationship with his parents, it wasn’t hard to understand why Amrath entered Mares Cathedral only on high holy days, marriages, and funerals. He’d skip the holy days, too, if he wasn’t required to participate as head of state. His rejection of the church was not entirely funded by his paternal feud; church people had a strange way about them. They smiled too much, were quick to compliment and support, but behind the stretched lips and soft words was a judgment. No one was ever good enough—at least not until they were dead. The dead were exemplary.
Saldur looked like he should be dead. How old is he? That was something else about members of the church—they grew old. Most men never lived long enough to have many gray hairs, but Saldur looked like a snowcapped mountain. Amrath didn’t think it was natural that all these bishops and priests lingered decade after decade. Amrath’s father and mother were gone, but Saldur was still calling him into the chapel for lessons. There was nowhere worse to speak to a bishop than in their church or in a castle chapel, especially a bishop who used to instruct him as a boy. They had spent long hours in the room exploring the mysteries of Novron. Mysteries that, for Amrath, were never made clear. As a boy, he had a list of issues with various church doctrines, but he couldn’t remember much of it anymore. He stopped worrying about the questions when he stopped suffering the lessons. If Maribor existed, how come no one ever saw him? Supposedly they used to—at least one woman saw an awful lot of him and gave birth to his son, Novron. And whatever happened to Novron? The teachings were always a bit sketchy. Did he die? And if he could die, why did people pray to him? Amrath never prayed to his own dead father. Of course, his father wouldn’t lift a corporeal finger to aid his son, much less an ethereal one. Amrath’s father felt it was more practical that his son learn how to cleave a man’s head off than to accurately recall the seven trials of Novron. To that day whenever he saw Sauly, Amrath felt like a boy who had skipped his chores.
Entering the chapel, Amrath wasn’t about to resume his childhood role. He was king now and was going to make damn sure the bishop respected that. The moment the chapel door closed, he demanded, “So what’s this all about?” His voice boomed. Intimidation was key to most meetings, and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could control a kingdom without it.
“I have been reluctant to say anything,” the bishop replied, folding his hands before him as if he were about to pray. He didn’t appear the least bit intimidated. “But my conscience refuses to let me wait any longer. You see, the problem is I have no conclusive proof, and yet if something were to happen and I hadn’t said anything, then…”
Rambling. He used to do this when Amrath was a boy. A simple question could never have a simple answer. “What are you talking about?”
“Please bear in mind that I could very easily be wrong. Most of what I’m about to say is mere supposition.”
“Most of what? Spit it out.”
Saldur began nodding, his old head bouncing as if his neck no longer worked right. Maybe it didn’t; maybe the old muscles were nothing more than dead strings now. “I have reason to believe that Lord Exeter may be planning to—well, there’s really no other way to say it than to say it—seize control of the kingdom.”
Amrath should have been shocked, and he might have been if the bishop accused Leo or even the feuding Conrad and Heft, but he was pointing a finger at Simon, and not a day went by that someone didn’t accuse him of treason. But the bishop had mentioned the welfare of his family, and that was the only thing he was concerned with.
“Simon is many things, but he’s no traitor. He loves this kingdom. Yes, he can be ruthless but do you really expect me to believe that he would resort to regicide?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying. It’s because of his devotion to the realm that he feels a duty to replace you as king—to save Melengar from destruction.”