“I fear for what will happen if you don’t.”
“There is nothing to fear,” a voice said from the doorway. “I have everything in hand as regent.”
Queen Aethe turned as Vars stepped into the room.
It was hard to express how little like a king her husband’s son looked. He wore a circlet of gold, but he was smaller than her husband, weaker looking, his hair a dull, muddy brown and his features undistinguished. His clothes were fine, but Aethe could see the wine stains there. More than that, there was something about Vars that she had simply never liked. Godwin would surely never have wanted him to rule in his stead.
“How did we come to this?” Aethe asked, knowing that Vars must share her grief even if they shared so little else. “How was my daughter taken by the south, your brother killed? How is your father fallen just at the moment when the Southern Kingdom is attacking us?”
That was the part that made Aethe’s grief all the worse. It would have been bad enough if her husband had fallen in combat, but for all of it to happen together was just too much. It felt as though it had destroyed her, leaving nothing behind. The mention of it all seemed to hit Vars too, almost like a blow.
“It is impossible to judge these things,” Vars said. To Aethe’s surprise, he came to stand beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I suspect it was all plotted by the Southern Kingdom. Yes, if there is anyone to blame, it must be them.”
“I do blame them,” Aethe said, feeling the anger burning brightly inside her, a flame that felt as if it would consume her utterly if she let it. “After all they’ve done, I’d see all of them wiped from the world if I could!”
“There is much to hate them for,” Vars said.
“Killing your brother, kidnapping your sister…”
“Yes,” Vars said. “At least she’s married to Finnal now.”
“She is,” Aethe said, and there was some relief in that. She knew Lenore had had her nerves before the wedding, but she was sure her daughter was going to be happy soon. “And Godwin…”
“We’ll do everything we can to help,” Vars said. “Everything that’s needed.”
“Can you… can you find Master Grey?” she asked. “The physicker isn’t doing anything, so maybe he…”
“I will see that he is sent for,” Vars said. “And in the meantime, I will keep everything running smoothly here.”
“I’ll help,” Aethe said. “Whatever you need. We’ll keep the kingdom safe together. For Godwin.”
She could feel the tears falling, feel herself almost falling with the weakness of her grief.
“That will not be necessary,” Vars said.
“But Vars—” Aethe began. She needed something to do that would make her feel useful, make her feel a part of things again.
“My father’s wife is clearly distraught,” Vars said, turning to a pair of the guards there. He didn’t call her the queen, Aethe noted. “She needs to go and rest. Take her to her rooms and see that she is not disturbed.”
“What?” Aethe said. “I don’t need to go anywhere.”
“You do,” Vars insisted. “You’re tired, you’re distraught. Go get some sleep. It’s for your own good.”
The problem was that the more she protested, the more she looked like nothing but the grief-stricken wife. The guards came to her, taking her by the arms. She fought clear of them, determined to walk on her own, but she couldn’t stop the tears that started to run down her face. She stared back at Vars, standing over her husband. How could this be happening?
More importantly, what disaster did it mean for the kingdom?
CHAPTER TWO
Almost since her arrival when he was a boy, Vars had longed to be able to send Aethe away. His father’s wife, his replacement for Vars’s mother, had long been a focus for so many of his disappointments in life. She had been whispering in his father’s ear for as long as he could remember, telling him that Vars was weak or cowardly or unworthy; that her daughters should rule.
She’d even insinuated as much in their conversation before. She’d asked questions about how Lenore came to be alone that obviously suggested she suspected Vars of some failing in his duties as her guard. She’d suggested that her brood could help to share the load of government, and Vars knew as well as anyone that was just a veiled way of saying that they might be able to take power from him. Now, as guards took Aethe away to her rooms, Vars risked a smile of satisfaction.
“What are all of you doing here?” he asked, as he looked around the room at the servants and the guards. As far as he could see, they were just standing there. “Do you think my father is going to sit up and demand a glass of wine, or lead you all off into the fray?”
Most of them looked away at his words, as if they didn’t want to listen to them. Well, Vars was the regent now, and they had to listen.
“We stay by the king out of loyalty, your highness,” one of the servants said. “And in case he requires our aid.”
“What aid?” Vars demanded. “I saw Physicker Jarran leaving on my way up. Was his aid enough? No. Even my father’s vaunted sorcerer has done nothing but mutter to himself in his tower. Yet all of you will offer him your aid? Get out.”
“But your highness—”
Vars rounded on the servant. “You spoke of loyalty before. I am the king regent. I speak with the king’s voice. If you have any loyalty, you will obey. My father does not need to be surrounded by guards, or by servants. You will leave, or I will have you removed from this room by force.”
Vars could tell that none of them liked the idea of leaving, but the truth was that he didn’t care. He’d long found that people only did what they were made to do. The ones who talked about honor, or loyalty, or patriotism were simply liars, pretending to be so much better than Vars was.
As they started to file out, one of the guards paused. “What if the king does wake, your highness? Shouldn’t one of us stay to tend to him, and to inform you if it happens?”
Vars didn’t shout at the man, but only because he had no wish to be seen as a son who hated his father, or as a fool who could not control his kingdom. What people saw was far more important than the truth, after all.
“That is not a job for any of you,” he said. “It is a task a child could do.” An idea came to him. “Who is the youngest of the pages here?”
“That would be Merin, your highness,” one of the servants said. “He’s eleven.”
“Eleven is old enough to watch and see if my father wakes up, and young enough that he’s no use for anything else,” Vars said. “Fetch him here, and then get off about your real duties. We’re in the middle of a war, after all!”
Those words were enough to get them all moving, forcing them into motion when Vars’s own aura of command could not. He hated them for that. He hated more than them, of course. He went over to his father’s sickbed, staring down at the comatose form of King Godwin.
He
