“We can do nothing tonight,” said Malachi. “We’ll start tomorrow, at council. If nothing else, I’d like to see Hadon’s reaction when he learns he now has two sons.”

“This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

Malachi’s soul ached at the accusation. “It’s all a game, and one won by canny action, not passion. By the terms of your original pardon, and despite your adoption, Viktor’s seat on the Privy Council reverts to you and claims a full vote. We can use that. In the meantime, my house is yours.” He looked Josiri up and down. “And we’ll find you some clothes that actually fit. Please. You trusted Viktor enough to come here. Trust me.”

“Through here, your grace.”

Josiri passed into the airy, high-ceilinged room. It wasn’t anywhere near as grand as his chambers at Branghall, but it was generous enough. More generous than he deserved. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy coming back to Tressia, but he’d not anticipated just how changeable his mood would become. Everything reminded him of what he’d lost – and what he yet stood to lose. Ana in Makrov’s clutches. And Calenne? Lumestra knew where she was.

“You’ll find a selection of outfits in the wardrobe,” the steward continued. “Serviceable, but I’m afraid Lord Reveque doesn’t hold fashion in high regard.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Josiri murmured. “What’s your name?”

“Braxov, your grace.”

“Your name, not your family’s.”

“Yan, your grace. Will you be needing anything else? Some food perhaps?”

Josiri’s gut rumbled, reminding him that he’d eaten nothing since an early and frugal lunch. But he couldn’t face food. The sense of displacement was almost worse than the feeling of loss. Fifteen years, always sleeping in the same bed, shackled to the same routine. Freedom brought strange fears.

“No.”

Braxov offered a pot-bellied bow. “If you change your mind, I’m at your service. Whatever the hour. The bell-pull rings through to the kitchen. If I’m asleep, one of the night-maids will find me.”

“I’m sure I’ll not put you to that trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, your grace.” Braxov extended his left hand and spread his fingers. The faded swirl of a rose-brand stared up from his palm. “Some things are more important than sleep.”

The mark of indenturement. Josiri had attended the first brandings – he’d felt he owed the victims that much. But he’d never seen one healed before. And this one had been healed a long time.

“When did they take you?”

“I was part of the exodus, your grace. Me and two sisters. They went to the Outer Isles. Haven’t seen them since. I came here. But I’ve never forgotten. Not where I came from, and not the Phoenix.”