Kihrin would have rather sat at one of the back tables, shielded from Darzin’s glare, but Taja’s luck was not with him. Kihrin was expected to sit at the table with his father, Darzin, his grandfather the High Lord Therin, and their immediate family. Even so, he doubted he could name half the people at the table, uncles and aunts he had rarely, if ever, seen.
Kihrin nodded as he ate. “Yes, my lady. I’m better at singing than playing though.” He picked at the food on his gold-rimmed plate. He still wasn’t used to the way the nobility ate their meals: the current course, one of a half dozen, was a small piece of rare salmon in a delicate cream sauce. Kihrin didn’t think it was bad, but it was very bland to his taste, and he wished the dish had come with a selection of pepper relishes or voracress sauce.
“How droll.” Alshena D’Mon snickered as she finished her third glass of wine. “Though I suppose it’s better than the skills you might have picked up in those slums, with that pretty face of yours.”
Kihrin gritted his teeth and glared.
Darzin’s wife giggled as if she scored a point.
“Mother, please…” Galen whispered from next to her.
“Awww, my son thinks I’m being scandalous,” Alshena teased Galen with a grin, but the boy frowned and looked down at his lap.
“And how is that new, Alshena?” Uncle Bavrin commented.
She laughed and fanned herself.
“You’ll play at the New Year’s Festival masquerade, of course?” Tishar continued, ignoring the tipsy matron.
“Absolutely not!” Darzin said. “A D’Mon playing at entertainment like he was common help? Will not happen.”
“I’m not that good anyway, Aunt Tishar,” Kihrin agreed.
“Qoran wrote me a letter in which he said you were the best he’s ever heard,” Therin said. Up until that point in the conversation, Kihrin would have sworn the High Lord was paying no attention at all to their chattering. “The High General has already agreed to attend our masquerade. You’ll play a song for him from that harp he’s presented you.”
“Father—” Darzin was furious.
“He’ll play, Darzin. That’s final.”
Kihrin watched the two share a murderous look across the table. Darzin was the first to back down. “Yes, sir.”
“That gives you three months to practice.” Tishar leaned over and whispered to Kihrin. “I bet we’ll have all the royal daughters drooling over themselves.”
Darzin, who was close enough to hear her whisper, stopped and guffawed loudly. “Now I see what your game is, Tish. You want to find him a wife. Give it a rest, the boy’s fifteen!”
“You and Alshena weren’t much older when you married,” Tishar replied.
“Look how well that turned out,” Uncle Devyeh muttered under his breath.
Darzin either had the good grace to ignore him, or, more likely, simply hadn’t heard. Alshena did though, and stared daggers at her brother-in-law.
“I’d give it a little time,” Darzin said. “Give people a chance to forget that his mother was a common whore.”
“Don’t you mean common slut, sir?” Kihrin corrected.
All conversation stopped at the table.
Darzin stared at him. “What did you just say?”
“I said she was a common slut, Father. Lyrilyn was a slave, right? So she couldn’t really sell her body. It wasn’t hers to sell. Thus, she couldn’t be a whore. But she could be, and frankly, was probably required to be, sexually willing. And she was almost certainly a commoner. Thus, my mother was a common slut.” He stopped. “But you had to free her before you could marry her, didn’t you?”
Darzin glared. “Yes…”
“Then I apologize, Father. You were right. She was a common whore.”
There was silence. Family at the table stared at Kihrin, mouths open. Alshena was frozen in perfect shock and Darzin’s face had turned an unflattering shade of purple.
Lady Miya started laughing.
Her laughter was magical, a building ring of crystalline bells. Any retort, threat, or violent outburst Darzin might have planned was overturned by the sound; everyone at the table looked at her before they began to chuckle themselves. Therin gazed at his seneschal with astonishment, allowing himself the rare honor of a smile.
Only Darzin continued to murder Kihrin with his eyes.
Bavrin grinned, looked over at Uncle Devyeh, and said, “I guess that settles it.”
Devyeh nodded. “Quite.”
“Settles what?” Alshena asked, her voice dangerous.
Bavrin jerked a thumb in Kihrin’s direction. “He’s one of us, all right.”
Tishar raised an eyebrow. “Was there ever any doubt? The boy is the mirror twin of Pedron.”
Lord Therin snorted. “Let’s hope he’s less depraved.”
Darzin dropped his knife and fork with a loud clatter on his plate, and even the High Lord paused. “Son,” Darzin began. “You’re done tonight. Go to your room.”
The newest member of the D’Mon family stared back in obvious amazement. “What? But what did I—?”
“NOW! To your room.”
“You’re the one who called her a whore,” Kihrin protested.
Darzin stood then, his face still red and his nostrils flared with rage.
“Fine!” Kihrin stood up from his seat and ran out of the room. No one tried to stop him, or indeed said anything at all, to him or to each other.
Kihrin was halfway down the main hall when he heard footsteps behind him—hard, fast, angry clacks against the marble tiles. He turned just as Darzin, face contorted in anger, punched Kihrin in the jaw.
“Don’t you—ever—” Darzin hit Kihrin again, this time in the arm as Kihrin raised a hand to defend himself. “Mouth off to me in front of family. I will kill you. You understand me, boy? I will fucking kill you.”
He drew back to hit the young man again, but this time Darzin hit the tall brass vase Kihrin brought between them. Darzin howled while his son backed away.
Kihrin’s lip was bleeding and his jaw swollen, but he sneered as he looked as his father. “What have you told me about watching your language, Father?”
Darzin stopped and stared at the boy, his expression one of fury and incredulity. “Are you actually baiting me, boy? Are you that fucking stupid?”
Kihrin laughed with mocking delight. His eyes were glazed, the gleam of someone pushed so far they passed beyond all caring of consequence. “I must be; I hear it runs in the family.”
For a moment, Darzin simply glared at the young man with flat, dead eyes. “Then let’s do something stupid together. It’ll be a bonding moment. I wonder how well you’ll play the harp for that stinking fat general without any thumbs?” Darzin unsheathed a dagger from his belt.
Any humor, sarcastic or otherwise, left Kihrin as he considered his father’s insane eyes and realized that Darzin truly intended to do it. He backed away, slowly, while his father advanced.
Kihrin swallowed bile, and tried to reason with the man. “The High Lord expects me to play…”
“My father,” Darzin said, “should be used to not getting what he wants by now. I very much doubt he’ll even attend.”
“You do this,” Kihrin said, “and you better kill me. Because if you leave me alive you won’t live long to regret it.”