Page 247 of The Cradle of Ice

“You’ve vastly improved,” Mikaen commended him.

“I’ve had good teachers.” Kanthe leaned a hand on a knee, resting his sword tip on the planks. He pictured sparring with Jace, being taught balance and technique from Darant and Graylin. “It’s a shame our father refused to let me train with the legion.”

“Our father made many mistakes,” Mikaen answered, his voice tightening with anger—but not toward Kanthe. “I will not make the same mistakes with my son.”

Kanthe straightened, paining his wound. “You have a son?” He had not heard. “With Lady Myella?”

Mikaen glanced sidelong; clearly few others had known about this. Kanthe had no difficulty doing some swift calculations and realized why no one knew. To be born this early meant they were conceived before marriage. Mikaen looked ready to refute this, but his face strained to hold the secret. In the end, he couldn’t deny them.

“And a daughter,” Mikaen hissed low, so only his immediate guardsmen could hear—who likely already knew.

“Twins?” Kanthe dropped his voice accordingly, both to avoid goading Mikaen and to protect those children from the scandal that such a revelation would cause. The twins—his niece and nephew—were innocent of all this strife. He would not sully their births.

Mikaen nodded, his face breaking with pride, a flash of the sun through clouds. “Both of them—Othan and Olia—beautiful and healthy.”

Kanthe offered a tired smile. “I’m happy for you. I truly am.”

Mikaen winced warily at his words.

Kanthe left his sword tip on the boards and leaned out his other hand. “Congratulations, my brother. No matter the future, I hope they live long and happy lives.”

Mikaen acknowledged this with a nod. He took a step forward to meet him and clasped his hand. “Thank you, brother.”

Kanthe squeezed, trying to remember the last time he had grasped his brother in any measure of true warmth.

Mikaen stared at their clasped hands, too. Then his grip tightened, spasming hard. “What is this?” he gasped out.

Kanthe looked down as Mikaen turned their hands, further exposing the gold ring on Kanthe’s finger. The crimson garnet caught the sunlight, revealing the winged stallion engraved on it, a match to the ship’s draft-iron figurehead.

“One of Mother’s signet rings,” Mikaen said, calculating in his own head. Like Kanthe, his brother had lived with the same rumors and whispers of a twin birth. Mikaen glared at him. “That’s why you sided with the Klashe! To challenge our bloodline!”

“No, I never—”

His voice swelled into a murderous roar. “To challenge the birthright of my son, my daughter!” He lifted his sword high, clamping hard to Kanthe’s hand. “Never!”

The blade fell with the fury of a father protecting his children. The sword cleaved through Kanthe’s arm, severing it below the elbow.

Kanthe fell back in disbelief, dropping his sword.

Mikaen stumbled the other way, still clasping Kanthe’s hand—and the remains of his arm. He finally threw them aside, along with the ring on a finger.

Kanthe collapsed to his knees. Blood poured and pumped across the planks. Mikaen shouted to Thoryn, but Kanthe’s ears rang with shock. Then the pain doubled him over. He swooned and fell to his side, his blood pouring over him now.

The world narrowed.

Shadows swam in and out.

Then he felt his body clasped, the stump of his arm raised.

Mikaen leaned his face close, his voice acid. “You’re not escaping that easily, brother.”

The agony in his arm flared—with the sizzle and smoke of searing flesh.

EIGHTEEN

THE ROOT OF ALL PAIN

Agoni kenn be the grettest teacher & payne the very fonte of wisdoum. But ferst yoeu must survive. No lessons are learn’d bi the ded.