The Songs of Sorrow: Tales of Lahan, #3

By A. H. Anderson

MILD DAWNS CRUMBLE TO BITTER DUSKS.

 

In the woodland realm of Silvrout, Cyril battles to safeguard his family while Celia clings desperately to a fading love.

 

Far away on the Yellow Isle, Magni Kerr grapples with seismic changes in his mining camp, while Venali Heiren, who has traversed the treacherous Sand Sea and experienced a world unknown, now tenaciously forges his path amidst the mysteries of a powerful new realm.

 

Amidst it all, Aela finds herself entangled in the web of grief as the haunting call of destiny tugs at her from every direction.

Haven faces the imposing might of her father's power, embarking on a perilous expedition alongside a group of freedmen. Together, they traverse the Mainland's perils, meticulously planning an infiltration into Lahan.

 

In this riveting third instalment, the relentless pursuit of deepest desires exacts a heavy toll, as losses are suffered and sacrifices made in an unwavering quest to claim that which is held dear.

 

THE SONGS OF SORROW is the third book in the TALES OF LAHAN series.

 

Reading order for the TALES OF LAHAN series:

Book 1: In the Eye of the Crow

Book 2: The Plight of the Isle

Book 3: The Song of Sorrow

Book 4: The Unyielding

Book 5: The Shielded Place

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. H. Anderson
• Release date: Jul 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738869954

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Appendix

THE SONGS OF SORROW

Copyright © 2024 A. H. Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact :

A. H. Anderson

www.authoraha.com

Formatting: Derek Murphy

ISBN: 978-1-7388699-5-4 (paperback), 978-1-7388699-4-7

(eBook)

First Edition, 2024

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2 

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In the year one thousand, eight hundred and sixty four, post-Astorian age.

One month following Ivaran’s invasion of Grunid, from which House Heiren emerged victorious and King Bardia I Ramos met his end.

Chapter 1

Cyril

THERE WAS A HAZE to the air as Cyril married Elenore Fairburne.

It was cold that evening, but the warmth of her hand was a comfort. Cyril held tightly to it as they stood in the shadowed woods, the path lit by dim lanterns held in the hands of witnesses. The sun had not yet completely receded, but the trees were silhouetted black against dim blue light. The master of justice planted the torch firmly in the ground as he retrieved a braided cord from around his neck.

Cyril did not cease stealing glances at Elenore. She could hardly contain her excitement. She bit her lip to keep it inside. He smiled as he beheld her, so beautiful where she stood. A wreath of evergreen, lamb’s ear, and winterberries adorned her head. She wore a scarlet, satin underdress with an ivory brocade gown. Her glove was removed from her left hand so that it could hold his right one. Cyril kept his eyes trained on her slender fingers as the braided cord was laced around their wrists.

In this realm of honour, I tether you in the ancient bond of marriage, Sir Cynefrid began. You are bound by the threads of loyalty and devotion, as immortal and ceaseless as the glory of this wooded land. He looked at Cyril. My lord, do you promise that to Lady Elenore you will be a protector, guarding her from all adversity?

So be it, until the end of my days, Cyril responded, gazing at her.

I now bid you to make your vows to the lady you take to wife, Cynefrid said.

Cyril took a breath and remembered what his father used to tell him about keeping his voice firm and full. Of course, Crassus never would have wanted such advice applied to this situation. Crassus would marry a common woman and then turn around and forbid his son from pursuing a lower lady. Perhaps he would lament to see this wedding unfold. But Crassus was gone, and Cyril was free to yield to his heart.

My lady, I shall stand by your side, shielding you from harm and offering you solace in times of strife. I vow to be your sword, defending you against any foe. He paused, remembering what he needed to say. My heart sings for you, and my soul longs to be forever entwined with yours. From this day forward, I shall love you fiercely. With this vow, I give you my heart, bound to yours until the stars themselves fade.

And does this woman marry you of her own free will? Cynefrid turned to Elenore.

She gave a warm smile. Her cheeks were crimson in the orange light. I do, sir.

And do you, Lord Cyril, promise to keep her as long as you both shall live?

I will. Cyril tightened his grip on her hand.

Sir Cynefrid placed his fingers lightly over their bound wrists. By this cord you are thus fettered to your vow. In the joining of the hands and the fashion of a knot, so are your lives now bound...one to another.

It was shortly after Sir Cynefrid finished his words that laughter and cheering broke out as Cyril leaned in to kiss her. Spirited music rose up from the minstrels as the gathered nobility made their way through the woods back to the castle. There, a feast awaited them in the wood-beamed banquet hall, a spread of four-legged game—deer, hare, and boar—and almost anything with wings that could be prepared to eat. And of course there was a fair share of elderberry wine and ale. As the drinks were poured and the empty trays filled with fresh food, the great hall grew raucous and loud. Cyril had expected this. He enjoyed the celebration, a lively event that was expected at any wedding feast. He held Elenore’s hand throughout, thinking that he could be content to hold her hand forever. The noblemen grew drunker as they stumbled about, red-faced, dancing with the giggling ladies.

There came an hour when that hall was stuffy with the movement of the nobles and the food and the fires in the hearths. Gifts were presented to the lord and lady, set aside for them to admire later on. The nobles of Silvrout had fine timber-crafted trinkets prepared, and Elenore studied each one, enamoured with their work.

Zelene sat on Cyril’s left side, picking daintily at the food on her plate, skinning meat from chicken bones with a slender fork. She looked at him, her face a mask of happiness while her eyes revealed deeper feelings he couldn’t identify. His mother always wore that look—it was the closest she could come to diplomacy. It wasn’t in her nature to lie as nobles tended to. She would put on a thin smile and briefly raise her brows to show her false glee. That night, Cyril was determined not to let it irk him. He knew that his mother had never taken to the idea of him marrying Elenore Fairburne, but surely the match made more sense now that he was in line for no throne.

I am glad you have your pretty bride, she said. The edge of bitterness undermining her well wishes made his teeth grind.

Nothing father can do about it now, he said sharply, prompting an icy look from her.

He would smile on you, if he were here, she said. What father does not wish to witness his son’s happiness?

A father who cares more for power than joy.

Zelene scowled. You dampen your own wedding, son, she scolded. Enjoy this day. You’ve been waiting for it since you were a boy, stealing glances at Klaud Fairburne’s timid ward over the banquet table.

Cyril managed a smile, remembering those blissful childhood days well.

By the midnight hour, Cyril was restless. He smiled at his wife before dismissing himself and slipping outside to the open air of the courtyard. He breathed a sigh of relief and watched the warm breath cloud in the air before him. There was much on his mind, much aside from the delight of marriage. Heath Blackthorne still fought for his life, and Cyril seemed to be the only one still bothered by it. It was his own fault, so he felt he should be the one plagued with it in the night and early hours of the morning. Even so, he nearly wished the man would die so that his mind could rest.

A thought emerged in Cyril’s mind, intruding amongst the others and pushing its way to the forefront. He saw the bodies of the Harrise children, the bodies that now lay in the crypt. He winced and dug the heel of his hand against his eye, perturbed. He did not seek power, yet death followed him. Why was that so?

Was the liveliness too much for my lord?

Cyril turned at the coarse voice and saw Victor Harrise, the brother of the late Edvin Harrise, who formerly wore the lord’s circlet sitting down in the crypt atop Osmond Harrise’s tomb.

Cyril tended to avoid this man, yet Victor Harrise seemed to seek him out. Perhaps he took pleasure in causing the young lord discomfort. Cyril’s eyes flitted to the doors leading back into the castle, spotting two guards stationed there. He returned his eyes to the one of Sir Victor’s that he could see. The other was covered by a patch, marred by the battle fought between Lahan and Grunid.

Victor Harrise once slew Grunidians with a viciousness that could put Islemen to shame. Cyril heard the tales from the soldiers themselves as they sat in the great hall nursing wounds by the dim fire, taking handfuls off loaves of bread. Cyril remembered sitting at his father’s feet, a boy of just three, running his hand over the bristly fur of Crassus’ hunting hounds as the rich smell of seethed meat rose into the air, servants rushing around to ensure each man was fed.

Sir Victor was younger then, a fresh-faced stripling, but his skill spawned stories that Cyril heard told time and time again as he grew. Tales of a fierce-eyed soldier with long wild hair and a blade that struck like lightning spread through the ranks, disheartening Grunid’s fighters. They spoke of the Red Menace, the brother of Denton Harrise who could swing a sword with the speed that carried a jackrabbit through the underbrush. The men claimed he’d lost his eye in the morning one day, but he fought on until nightfall as though he hadn’t been blinded on one side.

Crassus once joked that Victor Harrise alone drove the Grunidians into the ground, saying so with a scoffing chuckle as he berated the men for their cowardice, as though Crassus could speak of cowardice from the warmth of his chambers.

The Harrises lost their father Vernon and their eldest brother Denton, leading to the succession of Edvin Harrise as Lord of Silvrout. Edvin was killed and his son succeeded him, as is the way of things, but Crassus dealt a blow that haunted Cyril when he had all of Edvin’s children put to the sword. Then, laughably, a Ramos ascended as Lord of Silvrout, a position that should have belonged to the last remaining son of Vernon Harrise, had the laws of succession been followed. And now, Cyril stood facing the man whose province he’d taken.

Victor Harrise always wore a subtle smile on his face. His hair was not as long and wild as it was during his days as one of Lahan’s finest fighting men—the auburn locks now fell to his shoulders. His face was foxlike, a trait passed from father to son for centuries in the Harrise line. Cyril thought that those features earned King Wade Harrise the sobriquet Fox of Silvrout. It was always said that his cunning earned him that name, but Cyril thought perhaps appearance had something to do with it too.

Sir Victor was Master of Fighting Men now, a position granted to him by King Olyver, hardly suited to a man of his expertise. Victor’s prowess in battle could challenge even Ged Motley. Yet, Cyril assumed it was not the position Sir Victor truly wished for. That would be the lordship of Silvrout, the position that Cyril himself held, a conundrum that made their meetings rather tense, on the odd occasion that they did occur.

Such gatherings can turn dull, Sir Victor acknowledged, adding to his previous query. Loud and...hot. The air is warm, don’t you find?

Cyril tried for a jovial smile, masking his nervousness in this man’s presence. Sir Victor took his place beside Cyril, looking out at the courtyard, bathed in the pale light of winter’s moon.

Bold of you to conduct your ceremony out in the woods. Biting cold.

Indeed, Cyril replied, unsure of what else to say.

Sir Victor looked at Cyril and smiled broadly. He knew of Cyril’s unease. That much was clear. Sir Victor smacked a gloved hand against Cyril’s shoulder and squeezed, an act most minor lords would not attempt. Cyril had somehow let Sir Victor know he could get away with such an action.

You must be eager to return to your pretty bride, he rasped, his tone teasing as he chuckled next to Cyril’s ear. He sighed heavily and swayed back on his heels before planting himself firmly again. He had a fiery energy to him that made it easy for Cyril to believe he was a terror in his youth. Can’t say I’m so eager to get back to mine, he murmured.

I have heard that captivating women come from House Bourn, sir, Cyril replied.

Sir Victor shrugged. Captivating, I suppose. But a world of rage behind them.

Lahanian women tend to... Cyril trailed off, remembering that he himself did not come from Lahan, and such a thing could be taken as an insult. He glanced briefly at Victor, whose face did not betray his feelings on the comment. You have daughters, Cyril said, knowing it to be true but wishing for Victor to affirm it.

Sir Victor gazed out at the courtyard as if those daughters frolicked there. Four of them...if you can believe. The cold made him sniff, and he scrunched his thin nose, leaning against the baluster separating them from the yard. He looked down at the ground in reflection. None of them will be too keen on succeeding me as Master of Fighting Men. He said the title mockingly, pushing his jaw forward. His expression faded back to thoughtfulness. Yet I would not change a hair on their heads to have a son.

Cyril’s lips curved up into a subtle smile. He did not expect to admire anything Victor Harrise had to say that night. But the words struck him, made him consider the possibility that this man, aside from his ferocity in battle, was perhaps just a man.

The smile fell from Victor’s face, and he suddenly seemed severe as his sharp eyes lifted to Cyril’s.

How long do you think it will be before we welcome the king here? he asked, his voice soft, yet daunting enough to prickle Cyril’s skin. Most often, kings want a piece of their lords’ winnings, Victor said passively. A portion of their war spoils go to the Crown. Yet, I suppose you’ve no spoils to speak for. None really...save for your mother and wife. His eyes once more struck Cyril’s, and Cyril felt that same disconcertment. Do you think the king will bother to take his portion...or will he leave you with your prize, Lord Cyril? His voice neared a whisper, and Cyril felt compelled to leave this man’s presence. Even so, he raised the very worries that haunted Cyril at night. He named his fears, set them out unavoidably. It was strangely freeing to have those fears he’d run from for countless nights placed before him.

Cyril mustered a smile, dropping his eyes to his fidgeting hands before meeting the gaze of Sir Victor again. The king favours me, Cyril reminded Victor, understanding that this man could not boast the same. I trust such favour will preserve me.

The confident twinkle in Sir Victor’s eye slowly faded. He pushed himself up from where he leaned against the baluster.

Aye, favour is a mighty thing. Blood is stronger, said the knight.

Cyril did not know what Sir Victor meant, and he did not wish to. He made himself look at him, refusing to be taunted, if that was what the knight sought to do.

Do feel welcome here, sir, Cyril said. I trust you will help yourself to wine and ale. He brushed past the red-haired man, remembering that he had the authority to dismiss himself. He was used to waiting for Olyver to dismiss him. In Victor Harrise’s intimidating presence, he found himself waiting for such dismissal again.

But Cyril was the Lord of Silvrout, not Victor Harrise. He had earned his title in his efforts with the king, and he would maintain it.

Chapter 2

Celia

CELIA KNELT BESIDE A dying fire, clutching the message containing the wretched news.

It was meant for Olyver, penned by Cyril’s scribes. The seal was broken, and the king had already read it. Cyril hadn’t even bothered to send a message to her. In informing the king of the troubles they faced in Silvrout, Celia knew that Cyril hoped Olyver would deal less of a blow when his anger found him. It was useless. Olyver would be angry, whether Cyril lost many men to the Ivaranians or not, and whether Heath Blackthorne lay on his deathbed or not.

Celia sniffed back her tears, frustrated by her emotion. She needed to control it. If someone were to walk in on such a display from the queen, there would be talk.

Nowhere was safe. But that message...those words. They haunted her already. Sir Heath Blackthorne suffers mightily from injuries taken in battle. Those cursed words. How had Cyril so quickly given his men away? He did not detail a reason. He merely said that his cousin—their cousin Bardia that they were ever so close to—had called for his aid. That was his reason? It was far too hastily-acted for Cyril. He was wiser than that. He would not send his keenest fighting men away and receive nothing. There must have been something more. Bardia must have given him something of great value, something that Cyril did not mention in his letter to Olyver.

Celia wondered if Olyver believed those words, if he truly thought that Cyril was just being loyal to a fellow Ramos. Olyver wasn’t as smart as Cyril, but he was not that thick. Cyril had been reckless himself. He knew that Olyver would find out about the army he lent to Bardia sooner or later, and he attempted to cushion that knowledge with this woeful attempt at gloss. Cyril cursed himself with this message. It would only ignite the king’s anger further.

Without another thought, Celia tossed the thin piece of parchment into the fire, watching as it burned bright, eating up the small feast she’d given it. Olyver would hardly care to maintain such a message for his records. Indeed, Celia had found it on the floor of his chambers, tossed carelessly beside the wine table.

The queen’s eyes grew glassy, keeping herself planted on the rug despite the impropriety. The nurse would be looking for her, no doubt hoping to rid herself of Wilmot for the night. Celia hoped she would take her time.

My darling, you look ever so meek there on the floor.

The voice startled Celia, and she turned to face its source. She hoped he wouldn’t see the red blotches on her face in the dim light. She barely recognised the look on Olyver’s face. He regarded her with resigned weariness, a look far better suited to someone kinder. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to compose herself.

I apologise, my king, Celia began weakly, her voice strained. She reached up to grasp the mantle above the hearth. I should rise for you—

Do not bother, he said, holding up a thin hand.

Celia was bewildered. He never refused acts of reverence. But his face did suggest he was tired of something—perhaps he was fed up with decorum for the night. He crossed the room, wincing each time his right leg contacted the floor. He was still suffering, and his health waned. Up and down it went—it ebbed and flowed. For a while, he would seem healthy, as healthy as he could be. Then, he was ill again. Celia wondered if it would ever be fierce enough to claim him. It hadn’t yet, but no one could last that long under such strain.

The descendant of giants, he laughed bitterly as he lowered himself into a chair by the fire. Celia took it upon herself to feed the fire if he was going to stay. She reached out for another log to throw over the embers. That is what we tell our children. We Wembleyes, the spawns of the giants who carved the mountains. And yet... he trailed off, his eyes lifting to hers. His brows drew together as he studied her face, raw eyes and red nose.

Celia prepared herself. Soon, his mind would put the pieces together. He would remember the message he received from Cyril, then he would remember the bit about Heath Blackthorne, then he would remember her. Once it all came together, she would watch the cruel grin grow across his lips.

But the cruelty never came. Celia waited, and still there was no jest. His eyes never went cold and the wicked grin never found him. He simply lowered his gaze, saying nothing at all. He’d seen her dishevelled sorrow. Yet, he refused to make a comment. It was strange and unlike him. Perhaps he was feeling too ill to say anything. Perhaps he did not care anymore. Perhaps he knew that if Heath Blackthorne died, he had nothing more to torment her with.

It seems we were both dealt a bind, he uttered, running his fingers absently over the edge of the chair’s arm.

Celia hardly had the energy to feign confusion, yet she tried to. I am dealt no bind, she murmured.

Then your tears fall for nothing?

She would not look at him, her jaw set. For once, he was not the object of her anger. Olyver had not sent Heath into a fruitless battle. Olyver had not sent her love to the brink of death. It was because of Cyril that Celia would be left to follow in Olyver’s feeble shadow until he died.

My tears fall for fear, she whispered. But I do not wish to burden the king with my concerns.

Celia.

Her brows creased. What was it he was trying to do? He used the calmest of tones, like a gentle breeze. He called her by her name, not some formal address or term of forced affection. She turned and met his eyes, her own black with rumbling anger. He looked at her evenly, and she was frustrated by the foreignness of his demeanour.

Whatever burden befalls my queen befalls me, he said softly, leaning back in his chair. He said it as if it were obvious, as if she should have expected it. Her lip curled as she beheld him, that placid look on his face, the hollowness of his cheeks and the shadowy tresses falling to his shoulders. Who was he? Her husband, and yet she did not know him. She’d never known any more than the shade of himself that he showed to everyone, the violent, arrogant, childish King of Lahan. Who was he truly? But the more important question—who did he want her to think he was?

Then came the smile, not wicked, only amused. Will you once regard me with anything but suspicion? He allowed a light chuckle. I trust it is Blackthorne you weep for.

Had Celia seen herself, she was sure she’d be pale as a sheet. That suspicion he saw must have fled her face. This must have been his intention. He wanted her guard down to accuse her of infidelity.

If he dies, it seems your brother has slighted us both, he added.

Celia looked at him with soft surprise. She expected an assertion. He refused to show her anything she predicted that night. He did something worse now. Rather than accuse her of loving another and giving her a chance to refute it, he merely assumed that it was so, and moved on. It caused her far more turmoil. He simply knew, and it tortured her. If he had such knowledge, he could use it. Perhaps it was what he was doing now.

But I love you both so, Olyver said. I would have you both here in my court with me again. Cyril has transgressed against me...but transgressions can be forgiven. I am tired of war. I’ve witnessed nothing but war since the Elves decided to attack us. I fight this war still, my love, and I do not wish to war with my brother by law. I would have Cyril return as high advisor, and you would have your kindred here once more. Things would be as they were. He lowered his chin, and his next words were whispered when he leaned in to say them. I cannot give you Blackthorne.

Celia’s lip quivered as the lump swelled in her throat again, choking her. She wanted to sob, but she refused to. She lowered her shining eyes to the rug beneath her, her fingers combing through the tassels.

But I can give you your brother back, Olyver continued as tears streaked her face. Blackthorne...

Celia waited anxiously for him to finish.

If he lives, he may stay where he serves. I will not punish him for Cyril’s poor judgement. And Cyril...he was merely acting in loyalty to his house. His eyes flickered up to hers. If he feels such loyalty for his usurping cousin, simply because they both fly the bear of Ramos on their standards, how much more loyalty must he hold for his king?

It seemed that Olyver was foolish enough to believe what Cyril hoped he would. He took Cyril’s action as one of loyalty. It may have saved all of them. Celia knew her brother better than Olyver did. There had to be something valuable for him in such an exchange. Cyril was many things, but he was not blindly loyal. Perhaps Olyver hoped it was so, but it could never be. Cyril cared for no sigil or family name. He hardly cared for his own. He sought no elevation, he sought no wealth or land. It led Celia to wrack her brain for what Bardia possibly could’ve given him.

Nevertheless, the king believed his reasons. Olyver truly believed that Cyril was merely loyal. Relief flooded through her. Thank the stars for the king’s foolishness.

Celia let the quiet sob escape her. She took in a sharp breath, pressing her wrist to her mouth. Even if Olyver did not believe Cyril, and he was lying to her now, he’d chosen to show mercy. Whatever inspired this sudden charity in the king, she was grateful for it. Perhaps his illness made him think, made him plan. Perhaps he knew that, if the sickness ever claimed him, he wanted Lahan left in capable hands. He had his son to succeed him, but he would need protectors. He would need Cyril, for Cyril was the only one he trusted.

Celia looked up at the king again, at his dimly lit face. He regarded her with what resembled warm affection. A light smile lifted his lips, and he extended his hands to her. Celia ignored the knot at the pit of her stomach as she reached out, taking his hands and resting her head against his knees.

The nurse Margot Berry entered with Wilmot. Celia hardly cared that the woman found her in such a state. Margot turned white with terror as she realised her intrusion.

Fetch me Ged Motley, Olyver told her.

Margot nodded and left, taking the sleeping Wilmot with her. Olyver lifted Celia’s chin once they were alone again. She blinked her tears away, and his face became clear, his deep-set eyes, arched brows, and straight nose. It was a face she recognised well, but he’d aged even in the time she’d been in Lahan. His illness aged him most.

It is for your love that I do all this crown demands of me, he told her softly. In desperate hope that you might one day hold love for me in your heart.

Celia did not believe him, not for an instant. And this night, she wanted him to know. She was tired of pretending to believe him. You do all that you do for the crown and the crown alone, she uttered. He kept his hand under her chin, shaking his head slowly.

The crown grows heavy, he sighed. And you are the only thing that lightens it. I would give a thousand crowns for your heart.

Celia shook her head now. No, my king. Forgive me...but I know that it is not love you aim for.

What is it then?

You aim for what your father did...and his father before him. You aim to maintain your seat of power and elevate it ever higher. Why was she saying all this to him? Her mind warned against becoming too comfortable in his state of quiet. Yet, she was tired. In her tiredness, her mouth wished to run. She had not agitated him yet, she could tell by his gaze.

I have no aims, lady. His voice was very soft now. Always I have admired you...and always I will. You do not know my burden...to see such a perfect creature pass through the halls each day and know in my soul that I may never claim its love. He tilted his head. Or perhaps you do. See, my lady, we are the same, you and I. We both yearn for those we cannot have.

She lifted herself up to see him closer. Her eyelids fell, and she considered kissing him. She rarely did so—he kissed her. Then, she remembered his temper, his sharp, snapping remarks and rancour. She remembered who he was. Whatever this was, this calmness she witnessed in him now, it would pass away as though carried off by the wind. It would go as all his other moods did, perhaps finding him again one day. But it would be gone soon.

She drew back from him. Celia was startled when he retrieved the dagger at his side. Its blade flashed in the firelight and he extended it to her. She studied the weapon in terror.

Take this, my dearest one, and deal the blow that this illness will not. Deal the blow that no one will.

Celia was frozen, her heart’s pulse drumming loudly in her ears. Olyver reached out when she refused to move and took her hand, wrapping her fingers around the dagger’s handle. He lifted her arm, pressing the tip of the dagger against his chest. His eyes struck hers, and she had trouble holding his gaze as her hand shook.

Choose now, my love, he coaxed. Your Blackthorne may live. You may take your child and make for Silvrout before I am found. Before Motley arrives. If you must kill one man to have another, then so be it. But you must do so now. Motley will be here before long.

Tremors wracked Celia’s frame as she clutched that dagger. His hand fell from her wrist, and she pressed the shaky blade into the velvet doublet covering his chest, puncturing the first few layers. Tears leaked from her eyes. Her teeth clenched. She did not have that spite in her heart. 

She was no murderer of kings.

Her fingers loosened on the handle and the blade clattered to the floor. Her arm fell across Olyver’s lap and she buried her face in the satin of her sleeve, her shoulders heaving as she wept. His cold fingers wrapped around her forearm and lifted her. Celia’s head fell back as the tears flowed.

Your gentle heart would not allow it, he whispered. You have me, lady...my corpse or my living body. Whichever you choose.

Like some shadowy wraith, he descended and his lips covered hers. She expected this to find her sooner or later, but it took her breath, regardless. He dragged her up to meet him. Celia curled her hand around the nape of his neck, her fingers catching in his inky hair as she returned his gesture with an ardour that seemed to take even him aback. The response was fuelled by a rage that Celia did not want him to see. What she knew to be fury, she would have him take for passion. It was safer that way.

He had presented her with the choice she dreaded. He gave her an opportunity to solve all of her problems, and counted on her cowardice. He was right to.

Celia pulled away from him finally. She looked at him with dark eyes full of muted hate. She’d made her choice. He had forced her to. If she were more like her father, it might have gone differently. She could have plunged that knife deep into his chest, crushed his lungs and maimed his heart. Crassus could do such a thing, but Celia could not. If only Cyril had been born the daughter made to marry Olyver Wembleye. The king would be long dead.

Cyril would have killed him if Celia had not stopped him. When he put that pottery glaze in his food, that could have been the end. But they needed him to name Wilmot heir. After that, another opportunity did not present itself, not one that would keep suspicion away from them. If Celia had only allowed Cyril to poison the king, it would have looked like Olyver died in his sleep. Now, he recovered and grew sick again like the back and forth of the tide. 

Ged Motley appeared in the doorway.

You summoned me, lord, Motley stated in his deep, steady voice.

Yes, Motley. Olyver gazed at Celia as he addressed the captain. I wish to travel to Silvrout with my household. Have my uncle Dane stay here as protector until I return. You must take his place in the Elven war.

Motley tilted his head. Lord Dane will not be pleased, my lord.

It is of no concern to me. He will stay where I place him.

Aye, lord.

The captain bowed his head and took his leave. Celia kept her eyes trained on the legs of the chair Olyver sat on. She should have been rejoicing that they would soon go to Silvrout. She would be able to see Sir Blackthorne herself. She would also see Cyril. She was not entirely convinced that she wanted to. He was the reason Heath was injured. Celia also desperately wanted to know what made Cyril send his army away in the first place.

Celia glanced up to find Olyver looking at her. His face softened when she met his eyes, but she glimpsed the former expression before it departed—eyes squinted in doubt, jaw set in resolve. Her chest tightened.

Prepare yourself and your handmaidens, my love, he said, rising. His hand habitually brushed his abdomen with the sudden movement. "We depart on the morrow.

Chapter 3

Magni Kerr

IT WAS FAR EASIER to acclimate workers to the mining camp when they were not Grunidians.

Venali Heiren gifted many slaves to Magni after his foray into Grunid, most of whom were vagrants and exiles. They were difficult compared to those brought by Dane Wembleye. Wembleye picked up starving bodies willing to do anything for food. They were weak, but they rarely acted out. These Grunidian workers were constantly attempting escape, fighting the watchers, caught conspiring. Was it so difficult to simply complete the work set before them? Things would go far smoother for them if they did.

The Ramos king must have set up quite an economy for his vagrants. Perhaps he inherited it from his predecessor. However it was, these people were used to thriving. But gems needed to be mined. Granín was one of the Isle’s primary producers of wealth, second only to sand glass.

There was another matter. Magni finally received the genealogies from Ivaran’s library. They traced