Page 44

It was the same things they’d been wanting to discuss since Father’s death almost five months ago.

Just a hundred and thirty-eight days, and the council was already pushing to move on to crowning the next ruler they hoped to manipulate.

I already made all the decisions a ruler did, and there was no civil unrest in Respar to validate a rushed ceremony.

The common period of mourning was one hundred forty-four days, to reflect the number of days Joles spent creating the world, and the royal council could hardly keep from frothing at the mouths trying to put me in their throne of schemes.

Father didn't care what they did as long as the country didn't burn, and I was reaping the consequences of his thoughtless actions.

The royal treasury kept losing money, spies were rampant in the castle halls, the Guild of Finances was doing gods knew what with their own influence and backers, and we were now dealing with the possibility of imposters to the noble families and a murderous practitioner roaming the city.

Yet, every discussion since then had been over whatever details they wanted to verify that I’d already confirmed at least twice for the coronation, and who I would choose to marry from their stack of nominations hand-selected from the pool of nobility.

It was a clever game of distraction I was no longer interested in playing.

Looking at the room full of old men so disconnected with the world outside the upper echelon of Gilamorst made me long for the beginning days of the Royal Council.

An adaptation from the nomadic tribes that joined Julran refugees to make Gilamorst, the Royal Council used to consist of the general, merchants to represent the economic population, and representatives of the spellcaster guilds.

Over the span of only four generations of rulers, that tradition had deteriorated quickly to only cater to Highlans with a thirst for power and deep pockets.

Lost in my mourning of times past, I failed to hear what Ittman was going on about until he raised his voice slightly. “Your Highness?”

I took a deep breath through my nose. The scent of insecure men in this room was enough to make my bridge wrinkle. “Yes, please continue.”

“We were hoping you could give us some insight into your selection of a bride?” Ittman prompted. He pulled his own chair in and sank down, setting his arms on the table with hands clasped in front of him as if patiently waiting for an answer he already knew.

My mouth opened to give a scathing response, but Haron’s words stopped it in my throat.

She was absolutely right to be frustrated at my inaction in favor of avoiding a solid commitment on the matter.

The men waited, staring at me like their very lives depended on my answer.

For some, it did. Several of those women were connected to the council in some form or another, mostly relatives, that they perceived would get them one step closer to practically sitting on the queen’s throne themselves.

“There will not be a selection.”

The air may as well have been sucked out of the room, with how the group collectively gasped at the response.

Not one of them had the balls to speak out against me first. But I could see the arguments they wanted to say in the fiery gazes the councilmen lit in their sunken eyes.

This was why I wanted the guard to stay in the room.

I wanted to snuff this conversation once and for all and wanted a witness to keep the councilmen from twisting my words and sneaking around with their own agendas.

"Your Highness, I come with troubling news."

My hazy gaze, lids heavy with lack of sleep, lifted to the scout waiting patiently by the door for permission to step further inside the small meeting room I took over for my own purpose.

Scrolls, maps, and pens lay scattered across the round wooden table, all the chairs moved to the left wall to allow for ease of movement around it.

I had directed Sett to send anyone with a report on activity at the Golrath border to me in Beolf's absence, either out of paranoia or a need to feel involved in getting back control of this chaotic situation.

The answers to my problems seemed just as far away as when I'd started this gods-damned research project three days ago.

Why did Gennel run? Who killed Nebold? Why did Haron feel like she had to leave?

What was her connection to the Clifftombs?

What if she was attacked by bandits, or a Hollows hunting party, or a wild animal?

I was locked in place, surrounded by an army of questions attacking me all at once.

Every time I swung at one, another blocked the blow and demanded my attention.

The restless nature of the beast I tried so hard to suppress was beginning to gnaw at its cage, tired of being held back from chasing after Haron as its instinct demanded.

With a sigh, I slumped into the only cushioned chair nearby and pinched the bridge of my nose between two ink-smudged fingers. Black marks probably streaked all over my face from where I'd rubbed it furiously in frustration, but I was too far gone to give a damn about looks. "Carry on, soldier."

The scout—he barely looked old enough to claim adulthood, with a youthful face tanned by days spent in the sun—nodded and stepped further into the large study on silent feet.

He was obviously just coming off the assignment, still covered in road dirt and mussed from traveling non-stop across the kingdom.

A faint dripping sound filled the tense silence between us.

Dripping that seemed to be coming from behind the man’s back.

Behar seemed keenly interested in our guest, rising from his plush bed under the double window to circle around the scout and sniffing intently.

Then a low growl rumbled as he paid special attention to the sack I noticed tucked behind his right leg, held in a shaking hand.

“The camp I joined during my reconnaissance was attacked while I was scouting the woods bordering the Hollows. General Rimman had mentioned reports of unusual activity before I arrived, so I attempted to track the most recent sighting about a half day’s ride from where the Hollows and Julra met.

But…” The young man gulped audibly. “I couldn’t…

I couldn’t just leave his head there. Those tribesmen were…

the things they were doing to the soldier’s dead bodies was horrific. ”

He shuddered violently. Suddenly, it became very clear exactly what was in that burlap sack. Or more specifically, who.

“So, the camp was slain by Hollows natives? And you felt compelled to bring the general’s head into my study?” I tried to keep the disgust from my voice. He was obviously rattled by what he had seen and had to suffer alone with those thoughts the whole two-day ride by kisteral back to the palace.

“They were… doing unimaginable things to the others,” the scout continued, as if I hadn’t asked anything.

The man plainly struggled with trying to recall what he saw, his face losing its color as his eyes set somewhere beyond my shoulder.

“Some kind of ritual… cutting pieces out of soldiers and…

they were still alive! " he choked. "That was… the most brutal I’ve ever seen the tribes act.”

I moved quickly to the door, ushering in one of the guards to take the sack I assumed held the general’s head from the traumatized man. He flinched as the other guard rested a comforting hand on his shoulder and tried to pry the bag from his clenched fist.

“Did you notice anything else? Obviously, that behavior was more aggressive than normal, but did it seem like it was started by something or someone else?”

The scout’s head dropped so low his chin rested against his chest. For how long the silence stretched on, I didn’t think he was going to answer at all. But finally, after pulling in a deep, shuddering breath and letting it out, he did answer.

“There was… someone in the hills. Someone riding a kisteral and dressed in a cloak that looked to be lined with something dark, maybe trebegnon fur? They looked to have come from the same direction as the Hollows tribe. And… I think a chieftain was with them. He was dressed very differently from the rest and had these… unusual sigils painted in white on his bare chest. It was terrifying just looking at him.”

His description scrambled my thoughts. “The person in the cloak. Did you get close enough to see their face?”

The man shook his head slightly. “Sorry, Your Highness. I couldn’t get close enough before… everything happened at the camp.”

My thumb had drifted to my lips to bite at the nail, an unfortunate habit I carried from my youth.

Instead of answers, all I had were more questions about what the hell was going on in the north.

Surely the City of Scholars would send word if they felt a hostile attack was imminent.

We rarely had encounters from the Hollows tribes in the last ten years or so.

They certainly didn't participate in organized attacks, nor were they particularly known for joining tribes.

Lost in my thoughts, it wasn’t until a slight rattling of metal against metal pulled me back to the study. The sound was coming from the scout, now violently shaking so hard his armor was making noise. “I’m… I’m sorry, Prince Irin. I can’t—”

“You’re dismissed,” I cut him off. He was obviously about to fall apart. “Take a few days' leave and see a healer. I will send word if I need further information. Thank you for your service.”

The scout practically sprinted from the study, leaving me to stare blankly into the lit fireplace as confused thoughts and questions tumbled around in my head like leaves in a windstorm.

First Haron running, now the Hollows tribes attacking, and everything that had happened in the last moon phase—it all seemed to rip me from my moorings and set me loose in the storm.

My worry for her safety grew and festered into a thing that could kill me.

I had to figure out what Haron was hiding from me, and what exactly she was trying to accomplish by running off on her own. And now time was my enemy.