but the last time Killian had suggested he retire, Garrem had smacked him upside the head and told him to mind his own business.
“Not hungry,” Killian muttered, striding for the hundredth time past the long row of bookshelves in the library. Not because he had any interest in reading, but because the room had the best view of the city.
Bercola, on the other hand, was ensconced in a large chair in the corner, face buried in a book. “I am,” she said. “And you’ll eat even if I have to force the food down your throat, you damned fool.”
“Breakfast in here, then,” Garrem replied. “Your tea, my lord.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the manservant set a steaming cup on the table, despite knowing that Killian despised the gods-damned stuff. “I haven’t run off yet, Garrem,” he said. “And I don’t intend to, so feel free to ease up on your watchdog duties.”
“As you say, my lord.” Garrem proceeded to putter about the library, straightening books and organizing coasters and doing countless other unnecessary tasks. The man typically followed High Lord Calorian everywhere he went; that he’d instead returned to Mudaire with Killian meant that he’d been instructed to keep him in line.
Snapping the curtain shut, Killian strode past the steaming tea in the direction of the sideboard. Pouring a splash of whiskey into a cup, he stared at the amber liquid, the smell turning his stomach as he remembered his father’s parting words: You’ve been my greatest disappointment.
“Breakfast is served.”
Killian jumped. Setting aside the whiskey, he turned to find Garrem standing next to a tray of food, none of it appealing.
“This just came for you, my lord.” The manservant held out a letter sealed with red wax, the insignia that of the striking scorpion of House Rowenes. The King’s seal.
“There are soldiers waiting downstairs,” Garrem continued as Killian read the few lines summoning him to attend the King and the rest of the Council of Twelve. “They say they are here to escort you to the palace.”
Bercola had risen, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. She had a blade in her hand. “I’ll hold them off,” she said. “You get on a horse and run.”
“No.”
“Killian, you know what this means.”
He should never have abandoned the wall. He should’ve died there. Clasping her shoulder, he said, “It’s been an honor.” Then without another word, he went down the stairs to meet his escort.
* * *
The council chambers were on the main floor of the palace, windowless, with the one entrance flanked by a dozen armored guards.
A dribble of sweat ran between Killian’s shoulder blades as he waited, staring at the striking scorpion of House Rowenes gilded onto the door. It was a new addition. And a strange one. In this chamber all the great houses were supposed to be equals. A humbling reminder that a majority vote could pull the crown from the King’s head as easily as it had placed it there.
For King Serrick to put his crest here smacked of something beyond a lack of humility—it suggested he believed his rule untouchable.
The door opened, and Killian waited for his titles to be announced before stepping inside. The room was dominated by a massive circular table inlaid with a map of Mudamora, surrounded by twelve high-backed chairs, each bearing the crest of one of the twelve houses. Killian’s gaze went immediately to that bearing the galloping white horse of House Calorian. His eldest brother, Hacken, sat in their father’s place between Houses Damashere and Falorn. The lord of the former sat ramrod straight, wineglass clutched in a white-knuckled hand, while the lady of the latter had her chair pushed back, muddy riding boots propped on the table, glass balanced on one knee. The same chair her brother had sat in while he was king. Before he’d been murdered and his family had disappeared. She looked relaxed, but Killian knew Dareena well enough to recognize unease when he saw it.
Killian took in the expressions of all the High Lords before his eyes landed on a face he hadn’t seen in well over a year: Princess Malahi. The blond Rowenes heir was beautiful, with skin the color of desert sand and eyes a rich amber hue. But she was not, he thought, the sort of girl one kissed in dark corners. At least not without paying a steep price for the privilege. And given she stood to inherit the largest gold mines on the continent, the Rowenes heir