“But grandfather found you out?” I asked, fascinated by the notion that my father had not always been infallible. I knew he had killed his own father, but never considered there was a greater reason than a desire for the crown. I was beginning to believe I’d been very much mistaken in that.

“He always knew.” A bitter smile crossed his face. “It seems a universal flaw of youth to believe one’s elders oblivious to one’s undertakings.”

I waited silently for him to say more, curiosity making me forget the pain of my battered body.

“I went looking for her one day and could not find her.”

I tensed, certain that my grandfather had killed Vivienne to make a point, as my own father had done to the human peddler I’d once been so fond of.

But it was worse.

“Whispers and rumors led me to find her in my father’s bedchamber. She was his lover, and had been for some time. It had all been a plot to put me in my place, Vivienne only playing a part, every one of her words a lie. And he laughed in my face, and told me I was a fool for putting my faith in something so weak. And he did not mean just her.”

Hatred that was more than a memory filled his eyes, and I wondered if that was how I looked when I spoke of him.

“When I was done, the only way they were able to identify them was by their absence.” His jaw tightened. “After that, I turned my back on my foolish dreams, and Trollus learned to fear a new king.”

Lies or no lies, Lessa’s mother would’ve had little choice in her actions. When you were property, and especially when you were the property of a king, “no” was not part of your vocabulary, if you valued your life. But I said nothing, because he knew that as well as I, half a lifetime of regret and guilt lining his face in this rare moment of honesty.

“There was no going back after that,” he said, meeting my gaze. “At least, not for me. But I knew early where your sympathies resided, and so began over a decade of planning. I would be the people’s tyrant so that you could become their savior. Their liberator.”

I swayed on my feet, the scratch of my fingernails on the desk barely registering in my ears. “What do you mean?”

A massive concussion shattered the air, and the ground shook, both of us staggering. Righting himself, my father swore. “Stay here.”

I caught his sleeve. “Wait, you have to tell me what you meant.”

He shoved me back into the office, the door slamming shut, locked in place with magic. “Father, wait,” I screamed, but it was to no avail. I knew what that concussion had been: Roland. Too late I remembered Cécile’s repeated words of Angoulême’s strategy; too late I understood why they planned to go first after my father, who had the might of Trollus at his disposal, rather than me. Because the Duke had seen what I had not: my father would defend my life to the bitter end, whereas I’d stand back and watch him die. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed to hear more, needed to understand why he’d done what he’d done.