A Queen of Gilded Horns (A River of Royal Blood #2) - Amanda Joy Page 0,26

the throne. Baccha’s oaths were clear: He would work to see to the Tribe’s ends until he helped another khimaer Queen gain the throne. Making sure Eva made it to the throne was the only way he could gain his freedom and give Moriya, and every other khimaer, back what he’d taken when he betrayed them.

Shame tore through him, deep and black as poison.

“Even if she hadn’t sent you there,” Lyse said gently, “you wouldn’t have been anywhere near the Tribe to save Moriya.”

Right. He’d been roaming Dracol aimlessly for decades when he could have been on Ariban with his friend.

Another stab of guilt and disgust at himself. Like he needed more of that to carry around. Baccha glowered at Aunt Lyse, but felt a fool when she looked back at him, expression tender. “Great-Father, I know you and the Mother were close, but if what you say about Princess Eva is true, Moriya was right to send you away.”

He swallowed down his anger and buried his grief deep inside, where he kept the pain of outliving so very many. He refused to speak to his great-child with an uncivil tongue, because she did not deserve it.

Once he’d schooled himself to some calm, Baccha asked, “Who have the Elderi chosen to lead?”

“Moriya’s girl child is Mother of the Tribe now. She inherited her mother’s gifts.”

He tried to recall the girl’s name, but couldn’t. That explained the weaker pull on him this time. She was inexperienced. Moriya probably hadn’t gotten a chance to teach her to invoke the blood oath. “A child the Elderi don’t yet trust won’t be any help to me.”

Most of the thirteen Elderi, the council that governed the Tribe alongside the Mother, hated him on principle and still blamed him for the war. They would reject Eva simply because he believed in her.

Lyse watched him, lips pursed. It was not the stare of grandchild to elder, but of a woman grown to a child. It gave his aged heart the strangest twinge to know, despite all his failings, he still had kin who would protect him. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the difference in his and Lyse’s nature had matured her into a being with wisdom beyond him. He was ageless and ever-roaming—and static. She had lived long and would continue to; she had made a home here. She had grown and changed.

She grasped his hand. “If the Elderi do not yet trust Ysai, I am sure she will be in need of an ally. Through her, you can persuade the Elderi to choose your Princess as their champion. And pray that Eva will master her gifts without you. That may be the only thing that convinces the Tribe.”

“Right,” Baccha said. He’d wanted Moriya to be the one to remove his oaths, but her daughter would do. And if he could not give his old friend the gift of returning to Myre, then he could do so for her daughter.

Baccha started to climb out of his seat, but suddenly recalled why he’d come in the first place. “Have you thought on my request, Lyse?” he asked, still hopeful.

“Well,” Lyse said after a beat, “it is a good story. One that deserves to be told and heard. A Rival Heir choosing mercy over the throne. Many will call it impossible or a fantasy, but they will listen.”

At her agreement, he said the formal words: “Aunt Lyse of the Sisters, will you speak for me?”

She nodded, her honeyed brown eyes aglow. “I will, Great-Father, great Hunter. I will speak for you and for Princess Eva and of the Great War. Change comes and with it, so shall the truth.”

“You have my gratitude, as ever.” Baccha stood and kissed Aunt Lyse’s brow. If he wanted to make it to Ariban before the snows began, he’d have to beg a favor of an ancient, immortal friend. “Tell me, Lyse. Have you been in the mountains lately?”

“If you’re asking about that irascible old horse of yours, you will find him waiting in Ydara’s Pass,” Lyse said, favoring her ancestor with a broad smile. “The creature doesn’t let a sunrise pass without attempting to take another bite out of the sun.”

Chapter 5

Ysai

The night was cold and lonely, and Ysai wanted a bath.

Her neck muscles ached, pinched together from too many hours reading by lamplight last night, and her racing thoughts would have welcomed warm, enveloping peace. But there were no bathing tubs in the camp beneath Mount Ariban. The nearest