Page 49

D inner with Lord Daggar is nothing like what I expect. Then again, little has been what I expected in the Eighth House.

First off, we dine in a room that’s only slightly bigger than the bedchamber that Miriam and I have been assigned.

Secondly, our dining party is conspicuously small.

I’m told by Caleb that Lord Daggar is married and has grown children who serve as magistrates and functionaries in the mountain villages that spread out from the Eighth House, ensuring the protection of the border remains constant and fierce.

Caleb also learned that The Eighth House has its own set of priests of the Light, a true luxury this far away from the heart of the Imperium but another sign that the house hues to old ways.

Nazar was keenly excited to meet these worthy men, the first true priests that he’s encountered in the Protectorate, and throughout the long walk to this inner sanctum, he practically buzzed with inquisitive energy, rivaling only Caleb in his interest in everything around him.

But none of those priests are here tonight. Neither is Lord Daggar’s family. No one is here tonight but Daggar and a couple of the same stone-faced guards whom we’d met out on the open plain.

A faint scuffling noise sounds beneath Miriam’s feet as she seats herself, and I give her a sharp look, wincing inwardly at her grimace. At least we’re not completely alone. Though I’m not sure if hummerlets are considered decent dinner company.

I don’t mind having Divhs on hand, though, even very small ones.

Because this private dining room of the Eighth House is buried so deep inside the keep, it almost feels like we’re celebrating inside a tomb.

The walls are paneled with a deep, dark wood, intricately inlaid with stone in a swirling, sinuous pattern that evokes snakes so powerfully it feels as if they’re going to crawl right off the walls.

Lord Daggar waits until we’re all served wine, then he stares around at us, flagon in hand.

“Tonight, we welcome the return of the lord protector and his interest in preserving the safety of the Protectorate—a visit we’ve waited patiently for these past twenty years,” he says, raising his cup high.

“It’s been far too long since I’ve told the story of this house and our place in it.

Such stories were meant to be celebrated by those who hand them down directly, not buried in books or twisted on the lips of dilettante bards.

We are a proud house, the first to rise up after the Great Conflict. ”

“We honor you, your house, your family, and your priests,” Fortiss says, lifting his cup as well. “I apologize that our unexpected arrival is happening while so many of your people are away. Light willing, we’ll have the opportunity to break bread with them in the coming days.”

“Light willing,” Daggar agrees. He lifts his cup, then drinks deeply.

I glance over at Fortiss, accepting his slight nod as all the approval I need to drink as well.

If Daggar wanted us dead, he could easily accomplish it in this room where none could reach us.

Yet the same could have been true of any room in this keep, built as it is against the mountain.

It’s the perfect stronghold for a defensive lord.

Is that why Rihad never returned here? Did he sense that this was a place built for war, not for peace—a war that perhaps never truly ended?

I set down my cup, and my next words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Lord Daggar, your holding is as far west as the Tenth is east in the Protectorate, yet they couldn’t be more different.

Ours was built to sustain a small set of families, giving them support and protection as we watched over the pass that joined our land with the Imperium.

But your house is not only larger, it’s far more fierce.

If the former lord protector didn’t visit more often, perhaps it’s simply because he knew he had nothing to fear with you standing at the ready with sword and shield. ”

Daggar eyes me with cool disinterest, as if my observation had been offered up by a passing scullery maid.

Then his lips twitch into a condescending smile.

“Lady Talia.” His nod is perfunctory. “By ‘ours’ I assume you mean the house of your father, Lord Lemille or perhaps your betrothed, Lord Tennet, as both of those holdings cleave to the far eastern border. In either case, you’re right.

The Eighth House rose up out of the ashes of the Great Conflict, sustaining itself on a steady need to defend our great land.

Lord Protector Rihad saw that with his own eyes.

Why he never chose to return is someone else’s story to tell, not mine. ”

He swings his gaze to Nazar as I clench my hands into fists, twin daggers of embarrassment and fury piercing me to the quick.

Both my anger and my shame are heightened by the simple fact that he’s right.

I have no house of my own. It will take years, if not decades, to build a house that is anything like this one, along with men and supplies I have no way of paying for.

Talia of the Thirteenth house, bearer of the winged crown —that all has a nice ring to it, but it’s no more accurate than the romances spun by the traveling bards that Daggar so clearly disdains.

He’s not wrong about them. Is he wrong about me?

“Priest Nazar, you honor both your party and this holding by your presence. It’s been some years since I have spoken to a priest trained in the heart of the Imperium.

It’s rare that they travel so deeply into the Protectorate.

But ours is a story all should know, from the humblest stableboy to the Imperator himself.

To allow it to fall into obscurity is to invite disaster. ”

“I confess, I haven’t heard this tale, certainly not in any detail,” Nazar says diplomatically, giving Daggar the opening he so plainly seeks.

“Then listen well,” the man declares, thunking his heavy goblet down on the table.

Somewhere near my right ankle, I hear a querulous humph at the noise.

Biting my lip, I glance almost furtively to Fortiss, only to find him staring at me, as if waiting for the opportunity to meet my gaze.

As Daggar leans into what will undoubtedly be a long-winded tale, Fortiss lifts his fist to his chest and holds it there, his golden eyes fierce in the dimly lit room.

I hear the message as clearly as if he speaks in my mind.

Daggar can think what he wants. To Fortiss, I am a warrior, a lord.

With Fortiss, the lord protector of our great land, I have nothing more to prove.

Well…not quite nothing. I’m all too aware of Tennet sprawling on the other side of the table, eyeing us both.

With amusement? With annoyance? I’m losing my patience for not knowing where I stand.

I bow to Fortiss swiftly and shoot Tennet a glare, only to meet his gaze, hot and smug, as he sips the Eighth House wine.

My stomach tightens at his scrutiny, but my heart doesn’t twist, my pulse doesn’t race.

Something happened on that overlook between us, but it sure as the Light isn’t going to mean anything more than what I want it to, I decide. I’m a lord and a warrior, after all. I make my own rules.

Oblivious to my racing thoughts, Daggar swaggers on.

“The delegation from the Imperium had swept in a more-or-less straight line across the heart of the Protectorate, taking note of its riches and its ruins. This clearly had been a land of great wealth at one time, but there were no people anymore—anywhere. They explored uncontested, all the way to the jewel-like foothills of the Meridians, the entryway to the Western Realms.”

“Jewel-like?” Fortiss murmurs, his voice rich with curiosity, and Daggar turns hard eyes on him.

“Jewel-like, Lord Protector Fortiss, by all accounts. The Great Conflict devastated these lands, and their luster never returned. But the spirit of the mountains still feeds us and makes us strong.”

“Well, that is definitely true.” Fortiss waves for Daggar to continue, and he does, after taking another long drink of his wine.

“At that time, the delegation was led by General Mirador, the future founder of the Eighth House.” He glances around, his smile turning a shade more self-satisfied.

“You don’t know much more than his name because he didn’t want you to know much more.

At the close of the Great Conflict, he deferred all leadership to other members of the party, two warriors whose loyalty to each other was unmatched.

One of them, warrior Lanark, was gifted in diplomacy.

The other, warrior Bertrand, excelled in warcraft.

The diplomat took the lead and became the first lord protector we so venerate today. To him, Mirador gave the winged crown.”

“He did?” Caleb pipes up, drawing Daggar’s gaze. “Forgive me, Lord Daggar. I’ve made a study of the history of the First House—there’s no record of that crown, anywhere. All the accounts just say it’s been lost.”

“It was a sacred trust,” humphs Daggar. “Not the stuff for idle chatter. There wouldn’t be record of it.”

He turns back to Fortiss, while Caleb and I exchange eyerolls.

“Lord Lanark’s family has continued to rule all the way to present day, while his faithful second built a legacy of strength and skill to support him all these generations since.

All the while Mirador and his children faded into quiet obscurity, content with the role of serving as the protector no one knew. ”

I take another sip of my wine. Clearly, Daggar isn’t as content as he’s trying so hard to convince us, given how he’s brought this point up at least a hundred times already today. But I school my face into polite interest as he continues.