His pale blue eyes were cold, and he drew his hand away from the column as if the stone burned. “Gruah. My last wife, my judge, and my punisher.”

Caution warred with curiosity. Imogen wanted to know more of this Gruah, but every survival instinct she possessed buzzed a warning that such an idea invited severe consequences. Even if she were fog-brained, she couldn’t misinterpret the warning in Cededa’s frigid expression.

A tense silence swelled between them before she grasped her courage with both hands and changed the subject. “How many children did you have? Just the seven by Helena?” Hard to believe this icicle of a man with his deathless stare had once been someone’s father.

He blinked and met her eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. His features relaxed a little, and Imogen breathed a soft sigh of relief. “With that many wives, not to mention the concubines, I fathered armies of children.”

And outlived them all, she thought. How sad. Immortality exacted a heavy price. “Did you have a favorite child?”

The space between his eyebrows knitted into a pair of lines. “At first I did.” He shrugged. “I didn’t really know most of them. Seventeen raised revolts against me. Six planned my assassination. Two almost succeeded.” His lips twitched as she stared at him slack-jawed. “Why so appalled? Rebellion and regicide are bedmates in the game of kingship, witch’s daughter, and they usually start with one’s siblings or offspring.”

Cededa the Butcher. What had he done to earn such a ghastly title? What made his children hate him so much that more than a dozen led rebellions against him and six tried to kill him? Maybe it wasn’t him so much as their own greed and thirst for power. Hard to become monarch yourself when your parent didn’t age or die of sickness. Still, she didn’t truly believe him a harassed innocent, not with such a brutal moniker attached to his name. And he called his last wife his judge and punisher. What did he mean? An icy wash of fear sluiced down her spine.

Her expression must have given away her thoughts. Cededa’s faint amusement disappeared. He watched her the same way a hawk watched a mouse hiding in a wheat field. “Afraid, Imogen?” he asked.

His tone was dead, flat. Pride might tempt her to deny it, but no one in their right mind would lie to this man. “Yes.”

Something flickered in that piercing gaze. Regret. “It wasn’t my intention,” he said in a warmer voice.

Imogen’s fear faded as quickly as it appeared. “I believe you.” She didn’t lie about that either.

They stared at each other for a moment. Sixty-three wives, Imogen thought, and each likely struck dumb or terrified at their first sight of him. He certainly left her speechless on numerous occasions since her arrival.

Cededa stepped over a pile of broken masonry, smaller bits crunching under his boot heels. “Come,” he said. “Tineroth has a library, or what’s left of one, two avenues away.” He paused to glance at her over his shoulder. “Unless you want to see something else.”