Lome sat stretched out with his head back like a man napping. His flagon he held on his belly with both hands, but his grip was loose. However, he was not asleep. He looked up as Bifalt turned. His fingers tightened on the flagon.

Without preamble, he said, “Tell me again why you want me to command the evacuation.” He often said such things when he was drunk, but now his voice did not slur. “I have no authority here. You know that, Brother. Tell me again why you think anyone will listen to me.”

The King’s mind was elsewhere, listening for boots outside his door, a sharp knock. “Tell me again,” he responded reflexively, “why you conspired to have my wife murdered. You must know by now that we need Amika. We need her.”

Lome waved a hand, dismissed his crime as if it were trivial. “Another good point on my side. I tried to arrange her death—and now you want me to lead your people to her realm? I will be killed at once. And if I am not, how do you suppose Amika will react when throngs of homeless Bellegerins arrive like beggars?

“Use your mind, Brother. Think clearly for once. You cannot expect me to save so many of Amika’s ancient enemies simply because you do not know how to save them yourself.”

King Bifalt ignored Lome’s excuses. He had heard them all before. Absently, he said, “You have forgotten what you know of the Queen. Wait until you meet Commander Soulcess. Hells, Lome, wait until you meet Chancellor Sikthorn. If they do not sink to the level of your expectations, demand worse treatment. Describe your attempt on their sovereign’s life. Perhaps then they will free you from the burden of being King Abbator’s son.

“Until that time, Brother, your duty is clear. You will have to suffer the indignity of being a Bellegerin Prince.”

Scowling, Lome lifted his flagon, then put it down without drinking. “How will you compel me?”

“Shame?” suggested Bifalt.

“Hells!” snorted the Prince. “I left shame behind so long ago, I no longer remember it.”

King Bifalt heard the hard clap of boots from the hall outside his door. Boots running.

To silence Lome, King Bifalt snapped, “Events will remind you.” His voice shook slightly.

As he turned to the door, it burst open. Prince Jaspid entered like the first blast of a gale.

Three strides from the King, he stopped. To have come so quickly, he must have run all the way from the bailey, yet he was hardly out of breath. Standing suddenly still, he looked ready for everything and nothing. Only the sharpness of his gaze betrayed his excitement.

Clearly, he had recovered from his wounds.