“How could I not?” Dal grinned. “It’s a shame Kate isn’t more like her friend. But give her time. Maybe she’ll come round eventually. If not, some other girl will catch your fancy sooner or later. They always do.”
Corwin nodded faintly. Only it wasn’t true. No other girl had ever held his attention like Kate. Those others had been distractions, ways to pass the time. Kate made time stand still. It had been that way ever since they were children.
Coming to a stop, Corwin faced Dal. “What if . . . I’m in love with her?”
A stunned look crossed Dal’s face, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. Corwin couldn’t blame him for the reaction—they never discussed matters of the heart.
Dal cleared his throat. “If that’s the case, then I’ve no advice to give. As for myself, I don’t believe there is such a thing as love. At least not the kind the poets write about. Two people devoted to each other without fail, for all their lives? It doesn’t exist. People wander in their hearts even if they don’t with their bodies.”
“That’s a little cynical, don’t you think?” Corwin turned and resumed walking, although he kept the pace slow, not eager to arrive at the council chambers.
“I have only my parents to test the theory against, but believe me, their marriage confirms it many times over.”
Corwin held back a reply, sensing the underlying bitterness in Dal’s tone. Although they’d never discussed it outright, Corwin knew his friend’s parents were the reason he’d joined the Shieldhawks. Their marriage was rife with such scandal that Thornewall’s lord and lady were often the center of gossip in the highest circles, despite their lower-rung status among Rime’s nobility. The version Corwin heard was that both the baron and baroness played a regular game of trying to best each other over who could claim the youngest, most attractive lover. It was said that of the six Thornewall children, only the eldest two brothers could claim certain legitimacy. The rest were all supposed offspring of Lady Thornewall’s various lovers. Including Dal. If the rumors are true. Corwin didn’t know, and he didn’t plan on asking.
Still, despite how difficult it must have been for Dal, Corwin couldn’t accept his conclusion that love didn’t exist. His own parents had loved each other deeply. Even now he felt certain his father would still mourn his mother, if he had wits enough to do so. Then again, Corwin thought, such a love could exist only when it was felt by both involved, like a flower needing both sunlight and water to thrive. He didn’t know if Kate ever truly loved him. He’d seen her kiss Edwin that day, with an enthusiasm he thought only for him. The memory soured his stomach.
“I’m not sure if I hope you’re right or wrong,” Corwin said. “All I do know is that Kate won’t come around to Signe’s way of thinking. Kate Brighton changes her mind about as well as I can ride a horse standing on my head.”
“I’d like to see that,” Dal said, grinning. “But for now, I need to wash off the dirt from the road.”
“Enjoy yourself. I’ll be stuck in another thrilling high council meeting.”
Dal clapped him on the back. “Stay resolute, my friend. I’ll come visit you this evening. Let’s have a night out, see if we can’t get you past your heartache with some overdue diversions.”
Corwin gave a halfhearted nod, then watched Dal retreat down the corridor, his mind reeling with an unreasonable jealousy. What he wouldn’t give to trade places with Dallin Thorne, sixth-born son of a minor house. If only for a day. Or ten.
Or maybe the rest of my life.
Corwin supposed his biggest problem with the high council meetings was the way they discussed the same agenda items over and over again while rarely making any true decisions. It felt like being a ribbon tied to a wagon wheel, both dizzying and wearisome.
Today they were discussing the limited availability of moonbelts to the peasantry for at least the third time. Corwin would’ve given anything to skip this one, as his mind kept replaying the events with Kate over and over again—the way it had felt to kiss her, to touch her. He hadn’t been truly aware of how many assumptions he’d made about her wearing a moonbelt until she reacted the way she did. That he was wrong in assuming, he understood, but he hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to apologize. It didn’t help that she was avoiding him as much as he was her. Every day for the past week she’d been heading out into the city and staying away for hours at a time. He’d asked the guard-tower captain to make note of her comings and goings—for her safety as well as his peace of mind—but he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she was doing out there, without him.
Tomorrow, he told himself. I will go to her in the morning and beg forgiveness. But even as he thought it, doubt pressed in. What could he say to make things right between them? What could he do?
“You’re the high prince and might be the high king,” he heard Kate saying once more. “The world will answer to you. . . .” How he wanted to believe it.
“It’s a population issue, ultimately,” Minister Fletcher was saying as Corwin forced his attention back on the discussion. The master of the hearth was easily the youngest of the high councilmembers, a thin man with skin the dark brown of driftwood and curly black hair. Corwin knew him least well of the councilmembers, as he’d been appointed to the position less than a year ago. “The peasantry have three times the number of babies as the gentry each year.”
“Of course they do,” Minister Porter replied. The master of coin seemed Fletcher’s opposite in every way—old and rotund, his skin a ruddy pink and hair a pasty yellow, a color achieved with help from a magist tonic, Corwin suspected. “Each child who lives past infancy is another valuable worker. That’s quite the incentive for the common people. Whereas for the highborn, more children mean more dowries and inheritance concerns.”
Fletcher tapped an impatient finger on the table, not intimidated by the older man in the slightest. “Yes, but many peasant women, especially those who are aging or have suffered difficult pregnancies, would stop having babies altogether if only they had access to a moonbelt.”
“But they do have access.” Porter’s tone was heating already, as it often did in these meetings. “They’re for sale in every green-robe shop in Rime.”
Fletcher barked a laugh. “Oh, to be sure. They can visit those shops and stare longingly at the merchandise, but most of these families either can’t afford to purchase one or choose to spend that much-needed money elsewhere. Like feeding their other children.”
“What are you suggesting then, Minister Fletcher?” Porter sneered, jowls quivering. “That the high king buy the moonbelts for them out of the royal coffers? For I can assure you the League is not going to start handing them out for free.”
“That’s exactly what I’m proposing,” Fletcher replied, puffing out his chest as far as it would go, which unfortunately wasn’t far enough to impress anyone. “If we don’t curtail the population, we will soon outgrow our housing capabilities, not to mention the food stocks for the winter. People will be living on the streets, begging at our doors, starving to death.”
Porter huffed. “Overpopulation is nothing new, and we should deal with it the way we always have. Encourage the elderly and infirm to give themselves over to the gods in sacrifice. We could even lower the age of sacrifice if need be, or allow families to submit entreaties on behalf of the crippled and those unwell in mind, regardless of age.” He paused and raised his hands skyward in a gesture of honor to the gods. “Life is a wheel and so it must turn.”
Corwin shifted in his seat, remembering all too clearly the ash and blood stains atop the Asterion. It was a cold, frightening way to die.