The bison is lean, and Carmadon is right. Better than beef. I don’t bother with manners, as Carmadon seems quite at ease eating potatoes with his hands. It only takes a minute for me to devour half the bison steak, and all the browned onions. I’m so focused on cleaning my plate with my fork, scraping together the perfect bite, that I barely notice the door open again behind us.
“Apologies, of course,” Davidson says, his pace even but quick, as he walks toward the table. Julian trails him closely. Side by side, I’m struck by how similar Julian and Davidson look. In air, not appearance. They both have a hunger about them, the intellectual kind. Otherwise they could not be more different. Julian is too slim, his graying hair thinning and wispy, his eyes watery and brown. Davidson is a picture of health, his gray hair neatly cut and gleaming, and despite his age, he is all lean muscle. “What have we missed?” he asks, taking the seat beside his husband.
With some awkward glances, Julian surveys the table and claims the only open seat. The one meant for Tiberias, if Tiberias weren’t so hell-bent on annoying me.
Carmadon sniffs. “Discussion of the menu, the breeding habits of bison, and your lack of punctuality.”
The premier’s laugh is open, honest. He either feels no need to perform or he performs perfectly in his own home. “Normal dinner conversation, then.”
At the far end of the table, Julian leans forward, looking sheepish. “The fault is mine, I’m afraid.”
“The library?” his nephew offers with a knowing grin. “We heard.”
My heart twists at the warmth in Tiberias’s voice. He loves his uncle, and any reminder of the person Tiberias is beneath his bad choices makes me ache.
A corner of Julian’s mouth lifts. “I’m the predictable kind, aren’t I?”
“I prefer predictable,” I mutter. But loud enough for the table to hear.
Farley smirks at her plate. And Tiberias scowls, turning to me with a quick, even snap of his neck. His mouth opens, as if he’s about to say something rash and stupid.
His grandmother speaks before he can, eager to protect him from himself. “And what makes this library so . . . interesting?” she asks, her disdain evident.
I can’t help myself. “Probably the books.”
Farley barks out a laugh with little regard while Julian tries to hide a smirk in his napkin. The rest are more demure. But Tiberias’s low chuckle stops me cold. I glance at him to see him smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners as he looks down at me. I realize that, for a moment, he has forgotten where we are—and who we are. His laughter dies in an instant, his face falling back into a more neutral expression.
“Ah yes,” Julian pushes on, if only to distract us all. “The volumes are quite extensive. Not just regarding science, but history as well. I’m afraid we lost track of ourselves.” He bobs his head and samples the wine. Then he tips his glass toward Davidson. “Or the premier obliged me, at least.”
Davidson raises his glass in reply. A watch ticks on his wrist. “Always happy to share books. Knowledge is a rising tide. Lifts all boats, as it were.”
“You should visit the Vaults of Vale,” Carmadon puts in. “Or even Horn Mountain.”
“We do not intend to be here long enough for sightseeing,” Anabel says with a sniff. Slowly she lays her silverware on her plate of half-eaten food. Indicating how supremely finished she is with all this.
In her furs, Evangeline lifts her head. Like a cat, she surveys the old queen. Weighing something. “I agree,” she says. “The sooner we’re able to return, the better.”
Return to someone, she means.
“Well, that isn’t up to us, is it? Excuse me,” Farley adds as she leans across the table. Anabel’s eyes almost bug out of her head as she watches a Red rebel grab her abandoned plate and scrape the leftovers onto her own. With sure hands, Farley slices up the extra cut of bison, the knife dancing through meat. I’ve seen her do worse to human flesh. “It’s up to the Montfort government,” she says, “and whether or not they decide to give us more soldiers. Eh, Premier?”
“Indeed,” Davidson says. “Wars cannot be won on familiar faces alone. No matter how bright the flag, how high the standard.” His gaze flickers from Tiberias to me. What he means is clear. “We need armies.”
Tiberias nods. “And we’ll get them. If not from Montfort, then from anywhere we can. The High Houses of Norta can be swayed.”
“House Samos tried.” Evangeline gestures for more wine with a lazy, familiar twist of her fingers. “We aligned who we could, but the rest? I wouldn’t rely on them.”
Tiberias blanches. “You think they’ll stay loyal to Maven when—”
“When they have you to choose?” the Samos princess scoffs, cutting him off with an imperious glare. “My dear Tiberias, they could have chosen you months ago. But in the eyes of many, you’re still a traitor.”
Across from me, Farley scowls. “Are your nobles so stupid as to still think Tiberias killed his own father?”
I shake my head, knife in hand. “She means because he’s with us. Allied to Reds.” The blade slices through the rest of the meat on my plate. I cut with vicious force, tasting bitterness in my mouth. “Trying so desperately to find balance between our peoples.”
“That is what I hope to do,” Tiberias says, his voice oddly soft.
I pull my gaze away from the cooked flesh to stare at him again. His eyes meet mine, wide and disgustingly gentle. I harden myself to his charms.
“You have an interesting way of showing it,” I sneer.
Anabel is quick, barking a retort. “Enough, both of you.”
My jaw tightens, and I look past Tiberias to his grandmother, now glaring at me. I meet her gaze with equal fire. “This is Maven’s strength, one of his many strengths,” I say. “He divides so easily, without even trying. He does it to his enemies, and to his allies.”
At the head of the table, Davidson steeples his fingers. He surveys me over his knuckles, unblinking in his focus. “Go on.”
“Like Evangeline said, there are noble families who will never abandon him, because he won’t change the way things are. And he’s good at ruling, winning over his subjects while keeping the nobles satiated. Ending the Lakelander War earned him a great deal of respect among the people,” I point out, remembering how even Reds cheered him when he toured the countryside. It still turns my stomach. “He plays on that love, just as he plays on fear. When I was his prisoner, he was careful to keep many children in court, heirs to different houses, hostages in all but name. It’s an easy way to control a person, seizing what they hold most dear.”
I know that firsthand.
“And on top of everything else,” I add, swallowing around the lump in my throat, “there is no predicting Maven Calore. His mother still whispers in his head, pulling his strings, even though she lies dead and cold.”
A low current of heat ripples at my side. Tiberias stares at the tabletop, looking as if he might burn a hole through his plate. His cheeks are drained of color now, pale as bone.
With her eyes still on me, watching me devour the last bites of steak, Anabel curls her lip. “Prince Bracken in Piedmont is under our control,” she says. “He will give us whatever we need.”
Bracken. Another one of Montfort’s schemes. The ruling prince of Piedmont is under our thumb as long as Montfort still holds his son and daughter captive. I wonder where they are, who they are. Are they young? Are they just children? Are they innocent in all this?
The temperature begins to rise, a small but steady increase. Next to me, Tiberias tightens. He fixes his grandmother with a firm stare. “I don’t want soldiers who haven’t agreed to fight for me. Especially Bracken’s Silvers. They can’t be trusted. Neither can he.”
“We have his children,” Farley says. “That should be enough.”
“Montfort has his children,” Tiberias replies, his voice deepening.
Before, on the base, it was easy to ignore the price someone paid. The evils done for good reasons. I look to Davidson, who glances at his watch. This is war, he said once, trying to justify what must be done.
“If they were returned, could we convince Piedmont to stand aside?” I ask. “Remain neutral?”