Chapter 6

weeks of each other and all quite suddenly. This left the kingdom without a

named heir. The four archmages of the Orders came together and debated the

merits of the children of the king’s sisters.”

Jev scratched his bearded jaw and watched Targyon’s face as the story

unfolded. His mouth hung open. No, it was frozen open. The expression

stamped there held both horror and disbelief.

Horror for the deaths of the princes, Jev guessed. He didn’t know how

close Targyon was with his cousins, but unlike their warmongering father,

they had been well-liked among the populace. And disbelief because—

“I’m the youngest,” Targyon managed to blurt. “Of six boys. My mother

is the oldest of my uncle’s sisters, yes, but Himon, Dralyn, and—four hells,

all of them would be before me.”

“I don’t claim to understand, Sire.” The lieutenant was careful to use the

royal honorific. Whether this proved to be a mistake or not, he wouldn’t risk

failing to respect the possibility. “I just know what I read in the flags. The

ship’s captain would like you to join him. We’ll be docking shortly, and he’s

arranging a suitable bodyguard for you. Representatives of the Orders,

including Archmage Petor, should be waiting to explain everything to you.”

“Bodyguard,” Targyon mouthed, then looked to Jev again.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Jev said, figuring Targyon would appreciate a

familiar title right now. “I don’t know what to tell you, but I do know the

oldest-is-considered-first rule is only for the king’s direct descendants. In this

situation, the precedent is for the archmages to decide among themselves

which of the potential heirs that put themselves forward would be best for the

kingdom.”

“Put themselves forward?” Targyon brightened at this potential loophole.

“I didn’t do that. That makes this a mistake. Or maybe they assumed since I

volunteered to serve in the army that I would—no, this must be a mistake.

And I can get out of it, right?”

“You’ll have to discuss it with the archmages,” Jev said neutrally. He

couldn’t imagine young Targyon saying no or even arguing with those

intimidating figures. Few did. On paper, the Orders and the kingdom

government had equal power over the land, but the archmages tended to get

what they wanted, especially in those rare incidents when all four Orders

worked together toward a common goal.

“I will.” Targyon nodded firmly and turned, almost tripping over the

lieutenant who still knelt, his head bowed. “Where’s the ship’s captain,

Morfan?”

“Permission to rise, Sire?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Morfan stood. “I’ll take you to him.”

Jev felt numb as he watched them go, having a hard time envisioning Targyon as king. Even if he only dove under tables these days for figs.

How had this happened? A disease of the blood? That struck down all

three princes in the prime of their lives? By the founders, that was as unlikely

as a dragon cave without treasure in it. Jev hoped the Orders’ inquisitors were

crawling all over the castle looking for signs of foul play. He imagined every

newspaper in the city speculating that the Taziir were behind it.

But why would they be? The elves had won the war. Their archers had

found the cracks in Abdor’s armor and taken him down, leaving no one else

who cared to continue the assault. The kingdom was no further threat to

Taziira.

“That boy is going to be a king?” Cutter asked. He’d been silent during

the exchange, but he scratched his head vigorously with his hook now. If the

metal appendage bit into his scalp, he didn’t notice it. “He’s barely out of

diapers.”

Jev didn’t voice an objection to the observation since he was more than

ten years older than Targyon and also had a tendency to think of him as a boy.

What had the Orders been thinking?

A green-clad figure with pointed ears and silver hair walked toward Jev

and Cutter, his pack slung over one shoulder and his longbow visible over the

other. His elegant facial features were impossible to read as he glanced past

them and toward the ships. The Fleet Stallion was only seconds from sliding

into one of several vacant slips along the main dock—other troop transport

ships trailed behind, waiting their turns.

The sailors scurrying about preparing the Stallion glanced uneasily at the

elf.

“You decide to take me up on my offer, Lornysh?” Jev asked.

Lornysh arched a slender silver eyebrow, first at Jev, then at Cutter. “To

share a guest room with a snoring dwarf?”

“My family has a castle. There’s more than one guest room.”

“Are there trees?” Lornysh’s ice-blue eyes shifted, his gaze sweeping

across the city.

Here and there, squat olive trees rose between buildings, and one could

glimpse the dark mangroves stretching up the Jade River, but to an elf

accustomed to the dense northern forests across the sea, Jev supposed the

foliage seemed sparse.

“There are some trees. My father’s land is fifteen miles that way.” Jev

pointed up the river and past the ridge. “Outside of the city. We have fields for

the cows and sheep, but there are copses here and there near the water. We

have a lovely bog where we grow lots of gort leaves.”

“Hm.” The single note held disapproval, for the paucity of trees rather

than for the gort bog, Jev assumed. One didn’t typically disapprove of gort

until one had tasted it. Multiple times. Which didn’t take long in Korvann