to a last slim fragment of hope; that she had cherished, secret even to herself, the belief that there had been a mistake. But that last slim hope was gone. There had been no mistake. Lorcan was dead.
Why was she still standing, when the world had stopped? How was it that she did not fall down? How was it she did not scream? All the terrible questions rose up inside her: Did he die alone? Did he suffer at the end? Did he call for me in vain? And she was drowned by them. She was struck motionless and senseless and dumb.
Seeing her distress, Jonathon’s eyes filled with tears, and he stretched out his hand as if to pull her into an embrace. His sympathy threatened to undo her entirely, and, to save herself, Wynter thrust Alberon’s folder out like a shield and cried, ‘We have brought these, your Majesty. They are from the Royal Prince.’
Jonathon dropped his eyes to the folder, then raised them again to her face. He did not seem to understand.
‘From the Royal Prince Alberon, your Majesty. For you.’
The King stepped back as though she had threatened him. Still clinging to Razi, he looked from Wynter to his son’s dark face and back. ‘What treachery is this?’ he whispered.
‘No treachery. Just messages from your heir, begging that you understand him. There is no coup, your Majesty. There never has been. The Prince plans no treason. He—’
But the King had spun from her and turned on Razi. Gripping his son’s shoulders, he scanned his face and whispered, ‘He has sent you?’ At Razi’s carefully neutral expression, the King’s horror turned to rage. ‘Where have you been?’ he screamed, shaking Razi hard. ‘You poisonous child! While I mourned you and thought you dead, where have you been? What have you done?’
Startled at this abrupt turn to violence, Razi flung his arms up and broke easily from his father’s grasp. Stepping back, he lifted his fists in silent warning. The King’s face darkened in that frightening, lethal way of his and he hunched his shoulders.
‘You would fight me, boy?’ he said. ‘You think to best me?’
His fists still raised, Razi watched the King and said nothing.
‘Your Majesty,’ cried Wynter ‘If you would but listen . . .’
She tried to step between them, anticipating a return of the King’s terrible, violent treatment of his son. But Jonathon deflated suddenly. Right before her eyes, he seemed to crumple in defeat. He seemed to shrink and age. He turned from Razi as if in a daze and wandered across to sit heavily into his chair.
‘So, he has sent you,’ he said, ‘and I am undone. How cruel is it, Razi, to have mourned your death only to find betrayal in your longed-for resurrection. It is God’s punishment, I suppose, and well I deserve it. What, after all, did I expect? God help you, despite all my dreams for you both, how could I have hoped that you would escape your Godcursed heritage? As I took my kingdom, so shall it be taken.’ He trailed into silence for a moment. Wynter opened her mouth, but Jonathon went on in a whisper, speaking to himself: ‘At least my sons are not their father’s type of coward. At least they thwart me like men, and do not slither about as poisoning, devious . . . Oh, God.’ He clutched his head suddenly and moaned. It was such a deep, heartfelt expression of pain that Wynter, despite her own distress, felt pity for him. ‘Oh, God,’ he whispered again. ‘I have shaped my kingdom’s fall.’
‘Majesty?’ she ventured. ‘Will you please hear me?’
Jonathon glared up at her from between his fists and snarled, ‘It is the worst kind of mistress that lays herself down for a Prince and expects his power in return. If the Lord Razi has messages to convey, then don’t have him convey them through you, woman. However poisonous their content, let him not do me the discourtesy, nor himself the dishonour, of transferring them through his whore.’
Razi’s sudden roar made them both leap. ‘How dare you!’ he cried. ‘How dare you speak to her like that? Retract your slander immediately! It is the lowest thing in the world to dismiss a woman on terms of her virtue! How simple for you! How neat!’
‘Razi,’ hissed Wynter, ‘this is the King.’
‘He is a nobleman,’ snapped Razi. ‘He should act like one!’
The King frowned at him, his usually circumspect, hitherto unfailingly political son, now scarlet and