Tension tightened Garranon's stomach until it burned. King Jakoven had declared Ward unfit as much to tighten the binding on Garranon as for the gold he'd given the royal treasury. Jakoven didn't care who ruled Hurog, a keep so poor it sent its taxes in kind rather than gold. With the old Hurogmeten dead, the powerful warrior who'd held everyone in awe, Hurog was of no consequence. But the king would care that Garranon cared.

If Garranon spoke up for Ward now, there was a good possibility that Jakoven would have the boy killed. The king was jealous of Garranon's affections, be it for a person or a cause.

The sleeping king's arm fell away from him as Garranon wondered if the way he'd chosen was worth anything at all. He certainly hadn't been able to help Oranstone.

Whatever he said in public or to Garranon, the king knew that Kariarn wanted all of Oranstone. Jakoven was waiting for Oranstone to fall so the Vorsag would be forced to attack Tallven and Seaford from the mountain passes, giving the strategic ground to the armies of the Kingdoms. It had only been fifteen years since the Oranstone Rebellion had been put down. Too many would remember fighting against her to be outraged at a «little» raiding. It wouldn't be a popular war until Oranstone was swallowed up entire by the greedy Vorsagian army. Then the Kingdoms' nobles would be angry and outraged. The strength of righteous indignation would make all the nobles of the four remaining kingdoms support Jakoven completely.

It was a good strategy, if no one worried about Oranstone. When Garranon sent Landislaw home, he'd given him instructions to begin training men to protect Buril—and to evacuate the estate if necessary.

If killing the king would have saved Oranstone, Garranon would have killed him long since. But even as a boy, Garranon had known that murdering the king would accomplish nothing but Garranon's own death. It was better to use the king than to die as a murderer, though he was aware his father would not have thought so. But if he had wanted his father's approval, he'd have killed himself like his mother had. If his father could see him playing the king's whore, he would slit his eldest surviving son's throat.

Garranon stared at the thick rug on the floor of the royal bedchamber while the king slept.

"News, Erdrick," said Beckram as soon as Erdrick opened the connecting door.

The morning light streamed in and hit the parchment Beckram held in his hand. His voice had been so sober, Erdrick expected the royal guards to be waiting at the doorway.

"What's wrong?"

Beckram tossed the letter toward Erdrick. "You read it."

As soon as he saw the script on the pages he picked up off the floor, Erdrick knew it was from his father. He read it twice.

Ward condemned to the asylum? Poor, poor, Ward. Erdrick knew what Hurog meant to his cousin, idiot or not. You couldn't be a Hurog and not know how strong the ties of the keep bound all who lived there. The Hurogmeten had reached up past the grave to hurt his son one last time. The image made him shudder; the late Hurogmeten had always scared him.

"What I want to know is how Father knew that I was sleeping with the queen," said Beckram aggressively.

You don't sleep with her, was on the tip of Erdrick's tongue. But his brother didn't deal well with other people's humor, so he said, "He doesn't say anything about it," instead.

"He says he wants me to use my influence on the royal household to get the king to reinstate Ward."

Time to admit it. "Hmm, yes. Well, I thought that Father ought to know you were committing the family to treason. So he'd be prepared."

Beckram made a hissing sound. "The king doesn't care about that; she has not borne him, nor anyone else, an heir. He has Garranon and whoever else he can lure to his bed."

"Is that what she told you?"

Beckram gave one of his rare, real smiles. The ones that reminded Erdrick why he loved his twin. "No, it's what the king told me when he gave me permission to have her." He leaned back. "Although permission is the wrong word; it was more in the nature of an order."

Erdrick didn't know whether to be relieved or more worried. The king played deep games. "You'd best be careful."

Beckram nodded dismissively. "What I don't understand is why Father's so worried about Ward. Everyone knows that Ward is stupid—too stupid to run an estate like Hurog. Even for the Hurogmeten, miser though he was, it was difficult to survive from year to year. Still…" He hesitated. "I don't like Ward—"

Because, stupid as he is, he reminds you how you should act, instead of how you want to act, thought Erdrick.

"But I wouldn't want to see him confined to a room in the royal asylum. Could you see it? I think he'd kill someone out of sheer frustration. But surely some compromise can be reached. Father would take him in. Poor Tosten has probably been feeding the fishes for some time, courtesy of our dead uncle, which would leave Hurog to Father."

"Father doesn't want Hurog." Erdrick said, knowing it would be a surprise to his brother. Duraugh had always verbally accepted the Hurogmeten's assumption that Hurog was the apex of ambition, no matter what common sense might argue.

"What?"

"It frightens him. He says it's cursed. Do you remember Grandfather? Uncle Fen was worse. He will do his duty, but he really doesn't want it. Do you?"

Beckram thought about it and grimaced. "Being a Hurog lends a certain air to a person—sort of like owning a man-eating beast. Owning Hurog, though, won't do much for my love life. Can you see any woman wanting to live in that dismal place? And as the senior estate, it would fall to me, while you get Iftahar, which is richer and warmer." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "I'll talk to her."

Beckram shut the door behind him before he let his smile fall away. Though he would have cut his tongue out rather than admit it, he was worried about his affair with the queen, too. The queen's last lover had been found floating facedown in the small fountain in the central courtyard—a little fact the court gossips did not speak about.

Beckram didn't know what mistake the fool had made, but he was determined not to make the same one. He'd been very careful to stay out of politics. He never asked any favors. He never talked to anyone about the queen—except for Erdrick, and that didn't count—though, of course, everyone knew.

But surely asking her to reinstate Ward wasn't a favor—just the opposite. Hurog wasn't as bad as all that. Not many people would risk their lives to give it away. Risk their lives.

Who'd have thought he would risk his life for Ward?

Well, he decided, as he walked down the corridor to the garden door where the ladies all gathered with their favored gentlemen just before luncheon, he would never tell Ward. Ward liked to hug people who helped him, and Ward's hugs were neither dignified nor gentle. There was a lilt in Beckram's step. Risk his life; he liked that.

Tehedra Foehne Tallven, Queen of Tallven and the Five Kingdoms, lay back in her favorite corner of the garden and let her maid fiddle with her hair. The corner was isolated, almost out of view of the rest of the garden, and when she was in it, the rest of the ladies knew to leave her alone.

The sweet scent of the blossoming bush she'd never bothered to learn the name of was as soothing as her maid's hands. There had been one just like it outside her window at her childhood home, down to the pink tinge on edges of the white petals. With her eyes closed, she could almost hear her mother's scolding voice and her father's deeper, richer tones soothing her.

"Ah, my fair one sleeps the morning away."

Involuntarily, a smile caught her lips, but she let it widen into something more artificial as she opened her eyes. It would never do for the maid to report that her mistress looked upon her lover with tenderness.