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Queen Leiryn waited for them in the council rooms. She was pacing from one length of the long table to the other, her face pinched with worry. At the table’s head, grey-faced and exhausted to the point of dropping was a man. His dark hair was plastered to his face with dried sweat and grime, and a long gash had opened his face from temple to jaw. It was roughly stitched; livid, and oozing near his eye. A couple of rough hessian sacks lay on the oak table, inches shy of his white-knuckled fists. A strange metallic smell emanated from them. A closer look revealed a dark, rusty stain on the fabric.

Sorrel knew what it was. There was no mistaken that smell. He suddenly felt apprehensive, as if any moment the war he’d been talking with Arianlach about in the library would explode about their heads that very moment. One foot wrong and they’d be in over their heads.

One thing was sure. They were not remotely prepared for it. And it would come sooner than they’d believed.

Leiryn’s head snapped up when Sorrel and Arianlach entered, her staccato-heeled pacing abruptly halted. She hurried forward in a flurry of silk and fine wool and grasped her stepson’s shoulders, then pulled him against her in a brief and rough embrace.

‘Lord Stengarth has some news,’ she said. Her voice was odd; brittle, husky.

Sorrel’s stomach lurched.

Arianlach kissed Leiryn’s forehead, put her aside, and went forward to meet the messenger.

‘What news?’

The man wordlessly opened one of the sacks. ‘See for yourself.’

Arianlach did so, and recoiled, his face white. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand and turned away.

‘Who did this?’ he asked, when he was able to breathe without retching again.

‘They did it themselves,’ was the grim reply.

What? But…why?’

The man hesitated. ‘I believe it’s a rebellion.’

Sorrel could have drawn his svárath through the silence. Arianlach’s wide-eyed disbelief showed in his shallow breathing, his lips parted, his face drained of colour. ‘I…but…they couldn’t, no-one could…could…’

Sorrel went to Arianlach’s side and bowed to the messenger. ‘I am Ellazhán Sorreilli. Tell me what happened.’

The man looked startled, as if he’d only just seen Sorrel. He glanced first at Arianlach, then Queen Leiryn. ‘A Tethiri…?’

‘There are hundreds of Tethiri outside my walls,’ said Arianlach, still staring without seeing, though his brows snapped together at the messenger’s words.

‘Yes, but none inside…’

‘I am,’ said Sorrel. He straightened and stared at the young messenger. The man had none of the usual Northern trappings of rank and was instead dressed in plain armour of boiled leather, reinforced with iron rivets, spiked along his pauldrons and gauntlets. A fierce-looking man, he was perhaps nine or ten years Arianlach’s senior. Nothing of his appearance gave him any right to snub a Tethiri prince, as far as Sorrel could see.

He outranked all here but the Queen, the King, and their son.

He put his hand on his svárathin hilts and drew them an inch or so from their sheaths. A warning, and one that was never mistaken, even among those who did not often encounter the Tethiri and were ignorant of their ways.

Arianlach got a grip on himself and stepped between him and the messenger, his hands on Sorrel’s wrists. ‘Draw on him and I’ll kick you over the hills and back to your own people.’

‘Who is he?’ Sorrel grated back.

‘Enhian Stengarth, and my only hope of an ally in the North,’ Arianlach said, low and vicious. ‘His father is my father’s cousin. They hold Port Fall – between Baron Hervik, and The Shield.’

He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. ‘I can’t afford to upset him.’

Sorrel held Arianlach’s eyes for a long, tense moment. Then he stepped around the Earl and bowed again to Enhian.

‘Forgive me. I did not know who you were. If my presence inside Silverheim’s walls offends you, I will remove myself promptly.’

Enhian’s eyes narrowed. He looked as though he might offer further insult, but the combined displeasure of Leiryn and Arianlach persuaded him to think better of it.

‘Ellazhán is my foster-brother,’ Arianlach explained, once the tension had dissipated. ‘Baron Whiteoak intends him for his daughter.’

Sersa?’ Enhian whistled. ‘I don’t envy you that, horselord! What will you do to escape such a fate? My brother had to drown to get out of having to be shackled to that harridan.’

‘I don’t know. Is she that bad?’

‘She’s a living nightmare. Good luck. I have some particularly sharp rocks on my coastline I can drop you on if you ever want me to.’ Enhian bowed then, and some of his stiff disapproval melted. ‘My apologies. I’m not used to seeing Tethiri warriors in here.’

Sorrel’s lips twitched. ‘I’m no mere warrior. I’m the Crown Prince of my people.’

Enhian looked Sorrel over with the spark of interest now, and not distrust.

Sorrel thought he understood. Arianlach’s allies were thin on the ground, and he could ill afford to be taken in by any who might not have his best interests at heart. He would have to convince Enhian that he had no interests at heart save Arianlach’s, and his own.

‘I’m not here as an emissary of my people, I can assure you,’ he said. ‘The Earl bade me stay with him until Sersa Hervik is blooded. It was not my idea, but I and my people are happy with the situation.’

‘I’d imagine Baron Whiteoak is the only one who isn’t,’ said Enhian dryly, and turned to Arianlach.

He plucked at a fold of one of the sacks and looked from Leiryn to Arianlach and back again. ‘How will you answer this? I heard the King is too ill to…’

‘He is,’ said Leiryn. ‘He will not be able to deal with this, so my son must. I want it known that whatever he decides, I shall back him.’

‘And I want it known that I and the Tethiri will, also,’ said Sorrel.

Enhian looked impressed. ‘It is said that no Tethiri ever pledge loyalty to those who are not Tethiri.’

‘Rarely. But Arianlach is part Lyr Blaed, and therefore kin to us. I think I can make an exception for him.’

‘I might require you to die for me,’ Arianlach quipped. He still refused to look at the sacks, though he seemed a little more himself and not the coltish, frightened boy he’d been a moment ago. ‘Would you?’

‘I have just given my word. Loyalty means just that. A death is of little consequence. But to break a promise…’

He knew as soon as he said it that it was true. When had he decided? That afternoon, with Arianlach’s head on his knee? Or before then?

He remembered the jubilation of Midwinter Dark, and the dragon dance. Perhaps it had been then. Or perhaps it was on the training ground, Arianlach’s shield clipping his ribs, the throbbing pain a reminder only of his admiration for the young Earl. Perhaps even before then, when he’d arrived in Silverheim, and from Henarian’s wager had won Glasoura and Arianlach’s esteem.

Whenever the precise moment had been, Sorrel knew there was no going back. He had pledged his loyalty. He would never break faith, for any Tethiri doing so would be múyh – outcast, and disowned.

He came round the table to peer in the sacks. He almost doubled over in shock. He’d expected heads.

The sacks held hands. Six or seven, cut neatly at the wrist, cauterised. A surgeon’s expert job.

He sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.

‘Yes,’ said Arianlach, his hand heavy on Sorrel’s shoulders. ‘That’s the only way to get the bracelets off.’

Sorrel’s hands clenched in his hair.

‘If they’ve taken the bracelets off, what about the witchbane?’ Arianlach mused.

‘As I said, I believe it to be the beginnings of a rebellion, against the Lyr Deru edict that curbs their curse, and their magic,’ said Enhian. He tapped the opened sack. ‘How will you answer, Arianlach?’

‘Open the other sack,’ said Sorrel hoarsely.

This was done. He forced himself to look. Another eight hands, all neatly severed with hot knives.

Or magic.

He looked at his own hands, the traces of blisters still apparent, though it had been several days since he’d tried any magic. What if someone could direct that inner fire outward? The silver in the curse-bracelets was impervious to magic, but flesh wasn’t.

He had never heard of any mage who could have done that. But he knew that if it were possible, then that would mean one of three things. These people had the assistance of either a Lyr Deru mage, a Tethiri one – or a Lyr Celain monster.

His blood ran cold at that thought.

The click of the Queen’s heels cut through his anguish. She bent over the sack, flipping over the closure to gaze at the contents.

Then she let it fall back into place and stepped back.

‘Two are children’s,’ she said, her voice grey with shock.

Sorry this has taken so long. I'm busy with something else but once that's out the way, I'll back updating this each week once more. Thank you for reading :)

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