Whatever side Hadon came down on, he’d be sure to discuss the matter with Ebigail and Lord Tarev, which meant it was now a race. Malachi stared up at his father’s graven image and cursed to himself. He’d planned an afternoon loosening Rosa’s tongue and sorrows through libation. Now he’d be twisting arms before others could do the same. Two steps forward, one step back. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut after all.

“Always my own worst enemy, Father,” he muttered to the silent statue. “Always.”

The alabaster trunks of the hayadra trees blazed white in the sun. Marek’s father had always believed that an omen of good times to come. He’d adored the Hayadra Grove. The concentric circles of slender trees had for generations served as the site of celebration and remembrance; a meeting place for friends, colleagues and lovers alike. Where rivals settled their differences in the sight of the Goddess, just as Lumestra had made generous peace with faithless Ashana back in the mists of time.

Not that there was any such commotion within the centremost ring that day, not with a family of the first rank mourning its loss. Vigilant constables held the masses at bay, ensuring that Lady Kiradin’s grief was respected. But beyond, in the outer rings where stones of the old temple still stood, the crowds remained. Most sought simple pleasures under the open sky. A few had arms uplifted and eyes closed in prayer, seeking in the holy sunlight a sign of things to come, as Marek’s father had so many times.

For himself, Marek had never believed the future revealed itself so readily, within the grove, or without. For all his father’s endless study of signs and portents – of pentassa cards read by gifted eyes, or the shape of the stars – it hadn’t stopped him losing his head at Teldagand, had it? The Nomar family had never possessed much luck.

No, Marek believed in the evidence of his eyes, and in people, not portents. And at the moment, the evidence of his eyes told him that Lord Akadra’s conversation had not gone well.

“Well?”

Lady Ebigail stepped from beneath the shade of the hayadra tree. Marek followed, careful that the parasol kept the brilliance of the noonday sun from his mistress’ fashionably pale skin.

“He and Abitha plan to sue for peace,” rumbled Lord Akadra.

“They plan to humiliate us, you mean.”

Even faced with ruinous news, she kept her composure. But to Marek’s thinking, that was how it should have been. Some bloodlines were born to rule. One of the many reasons he served Lady Ebigail so gladly.

“Worthless, all of them, this younger generation.” There was no anger in Lady Ebigail’s tone, just weary disappointment. “Driven by their fears and their pleasures, and never a thought for the Republic’s needs. For the duty that we bear.”