it as by the marriage vow. Marguerite will rule her country, free of an influence from me; as I, eventually, shall rule mine. We do not have to meet but occasionally, to parley terms and the like. And in due course, I have no doubt we will breed an heir or two. But Marguerite and I intend our relationship to be that most courtly of things, Wynter – a political marriage.’
Wynter gazed at him, stunned. On a political level, this was sheer brilliance. A completely courtly, utterly calculated and unprecedented alliance: the rulers of two kingdoms, equal in power, joined by marriage. But that Alberon should even consider such an alliance with a tyrant like Marguerite was dreadful beyond thinking. It was sickening. It made Wynter’s skin crawl.
Alberon quirked a knowing eyebrow at her. ‘The Royal Princess Marguerite is her kingdom’s only hope of survival, Wyn. If her father has become as unbalanced as she claims—’ ‘But Shirken is not unbalanced! He is no more mad than—’ ‘Stop now, Wyn. Stop. I have only your word against Marguerite’s. The word of an outsider viewing things from the edge, versus that of someone at the very heart of the Northern court. In my position, who would you listen to? You were three months travelling home. In that time do you not think it possible that Shirken may have slipped back into frenzy?’
Wynter frowned and sat back. Alberon nodded in approval. He reached over and patted her arm. ‘Come now, sis,’ he said, his tone soft again, and gentle. ‘It’s only a political thing. We all knew I would never marry for love.’ He ducked his head and smiled up at her. ‘Love is what mistresses are for,’ he whispered.
Wynter looked down at the hand Alberon had laid on her arm and all her rage sank under a weight of sorrow. Despite what Alberon thought, Wynter’s outrage up until that moment had been a political one. Now the full implications of what he was planning sank in and she truly understood the depths of the personal sacrifice he was about to make. What Alberon said was true; they all knew it only too well: no royal could ever hope for a love match. Even so, marriage to Marguerite Shirken was very far from what Alberon could have expected for himself. The King had always made nods towards engaging one of the Sultan’s eldest daughters. It would have been a politically expedient match, and Wynter had no doubts that Jonathon would have a least tried for some soft and willing girl, intelligent and not at all a trial to the senses.
The thoughts of Albi with that viper instead, ‘breeding heirs’ as Albi put it, made Wynter shudder. She looked to Razi for support, but Razi was suddenly miles away. He was staring into the fire, his face indescribably sad, and Wynter knew he was remembering his own recent chance at a love match. Embla. That beautiful, gentle woman who had so willingly sacrificed it all to flames of a different kind.
Wynter squeezed her eyes shut.
A long silence ensued. When Wynter eventually looked up, she was surprised to find Razi staring at Alberon. The piercing expression on Razi’s dark face brought Wynter slowly upright in her chair.
‘You are very quiet, brother,’ said Alberon softly.
‘You intend to aid Marguerite Shirken in overthrowing her father’s throne.’
‘Razi!’ Wynter gasped, disgusted that he would even think it. But Alberon only shook his head in bewildered admiration, and Wynter knew at once that Razi was right.
‘Oh, Alberon,’ she moaned, ‘no.’
‘By God, Razi,’ said Alberon. ‘I have been depending on your bringing your words to my assistance – but I had forgot quite how incredible your mind is. What a statesman you must be. With you by my side, I shall be so strong. You must—’ Razi slapped his hand down on the table. ‘You are plotting the usurpation of a king.’
‘I am doing what is best for this kingdom.’
‘Alberon!’ said Wynter. ‘Such an act undermines the very fabric of what it means to be a ruler born! You cannot knock a king from his throne simply because you do not like his rule of law! Why, if we all thought thusly, there would be chaos!’
‘Oh, come along, sis!’ he cried. ‘You sound like an ignorant peasant. You cannot, surely, still be so naive? Most royal families are less than three generations old and you know it! Our own great-grandfather wrest this kingdom from William of Comber. Our historians now