The king lifted one brow. “It seems there is a reason you’re the youngest of Kepenhill’s Council of Eight.”
“I’m honored, sire.”
“But you are correct. There is another purpose behind this hunt. For the past year, Haddan and Abbot Naff have strategized ways to strengthen our weaponry. From novel designs of war machines to new chymistries of quicklime and pitch.”
Kanthe remembered the loud boom that had shaken through Kepenhill.
His father continued, “But the Shriven have suggested another way to add potency and malignancy to our arrows, blades, and spears.”
Frell nodded. “Poison.”
The king’s other brow rose to join the first. “Exactly. It is well known that the venom of these winged beasts is inordinately deadly. No man has survived it. The Shriven believe that if that poison could be properly distilled from the glands of those monsters that the lethality of our weaponry could be increased a hundredfold.”
Kanthe swallowed hard, both impressed and horrified.
“Which brings us to a last detail,” Toranth said. “I said no man has ever survived this venom—but a woman has. A blind girl who was involved in the attack atop the Cloistery. Not only did she survive the poison, but her sight was returned to her. Surely such a miracle is a sign from the gods.”
Frell’s shoulders tightened.
“I want her brought back to Highmount,” Toranth said. “Here where the Shriven and our physiks can properly study her in full. Blood, bile, flesh, whatever is necessary. Knowledge of her uniqueness might prove valuable. And whether it does or not, such a blessing from the gods should not languish in the swamps.”
The king’s gaze finally fixed upon his dark son. “And as these matters are of utmost importance to the realm, Prince Kanthe will join the hunt.”
Kanthe fell back a step, shocked.
The king continued, “Word has reached me of his considerable skill in such pursuits. It is high time for my second son to come out of the shadows and prove his worth.”
Kanthe tried to balk, imagining himself slogging through a bog. He sought words to argue against his involvement, but he found none. How could he refuse the king, deny his father?
Mikaen looked no happier. He sat straighter and leaned over to whisper in the king’s ear, but he was scolded away. All Mikaen could do was cast an aghast look at both king and liege general.
Heat built in Kanthe’s breast. Was his brother so enamored with himself that he couldn’t let his brother be polished a little brighter?
Frell stood taller. “My liege, if I may, I would like to accompany Prince Kanthe. If he’s to be gone a full moon, I can continue his studies, using lessons found in the swamp or at the Cloistery. And mayhap my knowledge of the winged denizens could prove useful in the distillation of the beasts’ poison.”
The king waved flippantly. “Whatever you think best.”
Frell bowed and backed to join Kanthe. The alchymist cast him a worried sidelong look. Kanthe remembered the black missive on his mentor’s table and felt the noose around his neck snug even tighter. But now was not the time to discuss such concerns, especially as all eyes were now upon the king’s dark son.
“Wh … When do we depart?” Kanthe stammered out.
“Your ship sets sail in two short days,” his father replied. “So you best ready yourself.”
Kanthe nodded. He understood the haste. The king wanted his youngest son—ever the embarrassment to the family—gone from the city before the coming marriage of Mikaen to Lady Myella.
So be it.
With everything settled, the king pushed his chair back with a loud squeak and stood.
Mikaen quickly followed suit. So did all the others. As Haddan shoved up, he stared over at Kanthe, his face stoic and cold. A hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed dagger as he sized up the younger of the two princes. From the deepening scowl before he turned away, the liege general did not like what he saw.
I can’t disagree with you, Kanthe thought. But maybe that could change.
And he knew the first step toward that goal.
* * *
KANTHE IGNORED THE glances cast his way as he climbed the stone stairs that wound through the barracks of the Legionary. He had never set foot inside here before. He had expected to hear the clash of steel, the raucous calls of hard men, the ribaldry of comrades-in-arms.
Instead, the training halls of the king’s legions seemed as studious as any found at Kepenhill. The only exception was the bawling and barking from the kennels at the base of the barracks, where the legion’s war dogs were housed and trained alongside the boys and young men.
As Kanthe climbed, he was eyed by those he crossed on the stairs. Even if he wasn’t still dressed in his formal finery, everyone knew the Tallywag, the Sodden Prince of Highmount. Whispers and smatters of laughter followed in his wake, but he kept his back straight.
He reached the eighth tier of the barracks, searched for the proper door, and rapped his knuckles on it.
A muffled curse answered him, accompanied by a shuffling. The door was yanked open. “What do you want—”
Mikaen’s words died as he recognized the visitor standing at his threshold. The storm building atop his brother’s brow blew out and was replaced with a narrow-eyed wariness. “Kanthe, what’re you doing here? Did you get lost on your way back to Kepenhill?”
Kanthe ignored the jibe and shoved past his brother. As he entered Mikaen’s room, he was surprised to discover the domicile of the king’s bright son was even smaller than Kanthe’s place at Kepenhill. There was a mussed bed, a small scarred desk, and a large wardrobe, which stood open, revealing the silvery glint of armor. Mikaen had stripped out of his own finery and wore only a longshirt, exposing his bare legs. He looked far younger, less the polished knight-in-training.
Kanthe raised the small ebonwood box that he had carried here. “A gift. For your wedding. Since I won’t be attending your nuptials.”
Mikaen frowned. “You could’ve sent a courier.”
“I wanted to deliver it in person.”
Mikaen sighed and accepted the box. He undid the clasp and opened it. He stared inside for a long breath. When he lifted his face again, a small smile graced his handsome lips. The expression was both winsome and amused.
“You kept it,” he said.
Kanthe shrugged. “How could I not?”
Mikaen lifted out the small sculpture that was cradled inside the case. It was a rough bit of pottery, formed of molded clay, rolled and prodded into the crude shape of two boys. The figures faced each other, clasping arms. One had been glazed in crackles of white, the other in dark gray.
Kanthe nodded to it. “You made that for me when I was laid up in bed with a bout of Firepester, when no one was allowed in my sick room.”
Mikaen’s voice cracked a bit. “I remember … I wanted to be beside you, even when I couldn’t.” He glanced over. “Why do you return this to me now?”
“For the same reason you gave it to me long ago. I leave in two days. You will soon be married. I wanted you to know that as much as we’ve grown apart—” He pointed to the kiln-fused arms of the tiny figures. “I’ll always be with you in spirit.”
Still, there was another reason Kanthe had snuck back to their old rooms in Highmount and removed the box hidden under the floorboards. He had wanted to remind Mikaen of the boy he once was, someone kind to a feverish younger brother. While they had spent the past eight years growing apart, maybe now was a chance to reverse that, to find their way back to one another.