He reached for the bread, and tore a large piece off the loaf on which he spread fresh butter. A servant put several hard-boiled eggs, a bunch of grapes and a slice of salted meat upon his plate. Another servant filled the goblet by Arcas’s hand with sweet frine.
“And how is the wily Master of the Merchants?” Lara inquired.
“Soon to be created emperor,” Arcas said softly.
“Your High Council is made up of fools that they would give Gaius Prospero such power,” Lara replied bluntly. “He will abuse it, for he cannot help himself. His ambition knows no bounds, my lord king.”
“She is right,” Archeron spoke up now. “If we must all answer to Gaius Prospero as the supreme ruler of Hetar then what will happen to us, my son? Will our secret remain safe then?” The older man looked very concerned.
“You have told her?” Arcas demanded. Then he laughed. “Of course you have told her. You are bewitched by her. All men are.”
“Your father told me because I asked what was on the other side of the sea,” Lara explained. “Any stranger remaining in your kingdom for a time would wonder, Arcas. There are no manufactories here, so from where do your luxury goods come? You are the most distant province from the City. Few except the Taubyl Traders have ventured here, and they remain but long enough to sell their goods and purchase yours.”
“You are clever as well as beautiful,” Arcas replied.
“And you are as bold as you ever were,” Lara noted. She then concentrated upon her meal. This young Coastal King had irritated her the first time she met him, and it would seem that nothing had changed.
“Hetar will be stronger under a single ruler,” Arcas told them.
“I think you are wrong,” Lara said. “A High Council with all the provinces represented gives a greater voice to the people of Hetar. And there is no danger to us.”
“The Outlands presents a danger,” Arcas quickly said. “They must be subdued.”
“The Outlands present no danger to Hetar,” Lara snapped. “That is Gaius Prospero’s excuse to take what is not his. Do you think we have not heard that the City is riddled with poor? That the soil in the Midlands no longer produces enough crops to feed the people? The farmers have pushed into the forest, felling trees and clearing the land to plant. That must sit well with the Forest Lords. And Gaius Prospero has even dared to venture into the sandy grass of the desert as well. Do not tell me that his nefarious plans for war are because Hetar is threatened, for it is not!”
“How can you know these things?” Arcas wanted to know.
“Do you think Gaius Prospero is the only one with spies?” Lara taunted him.
He laughed. “I suppose not,” he said. “This is a high-stakes game that is being played. The future of Hetar depends upon who wins.”
“You have land here in your own kingdom that lies fallow and unused,” Lara said to him. “I have ridden across it on many an afternoon. Why will you not share your lands with those who feed Hetar? You would not have to give it away, or even sell it. You could lease it to the farmers, and those who did not produce would not have their leases renewed. And the purpose of the land would not be for settlement, but only for growing. The Midlands farmers coming here could not bring their families. They would only work the land. They would pay their leases yearly, and then from their profits give Hetar’s government a quarter share.”
“Lease our land?” Arcas looked horrified. “It is ours. We do not want strangers coming onto it.”
“You would rather involve Hetar in another war to try and take land from the Outland clan families?”
“The Outlands are populated by savages,” he said. “They do not deserve the land. It should belong to Hetar.”
“You know you speak foolishness, Arcas,” his father said. “You are more aware than most on Hetar that the Outlands are populated by peaceful people who simply wish to be allowed to live their lives as they see fit, and as their customs dictate.”
“I will grant you Rendor is a fine fellow,” Arcas admitted, “but as for the others—” He stopped.
Lara was shaking her head. “Did you find my husband a savage, Arcas?” she asked him. “I found more civility and kindness among the Fiacre than among the good people of Hetar. Did not the mercenary Wilmot tell the High Council the truth of the Outlands when he spoke before them? For Gaius Prospero to persist in the fantasy of savagery, and to use it as an excuse to invade the Outlands, is just wrong!”
“You speak treason,” he said in a threatening voice. “You are Hetarian.”
“No, I am Lara—widow of Vartan, daughter of Swiftsword, half-mortal, half-faerie. I was born in the faerie realm and raised in the City, but I found my greatest happiness in the Outlands,” she told him. “I use the small magic I possess only for good, Arcas. I will speak against intolerance and injustice while there is breath in my body.”
“How can someone so obviously meant for pleasure debate on such things?” he asked her.
“You are hopeless,” she told him.
He did not understand her, Arcas thought irritably, but he found he still wanted her. Yet in the days that followed she grew no warmer toward him despite his many compliments. But her sweetness toward his father seemed to grow. And as Gaius Prospero had told him, Archeron and Lara rode out together almost every afternoon. They did not ask him to join them, and on one or two occasions he had suggested going with them his father had said no. Arcas had been amazed by the refusal. Was Gaius Prospero right? Was his father Lara’s lover? Still, Arcas could find no other evidence of such a relationship. And he had easily learned that his father spent his nights in his own bed, and not in Lara’s arms. This knowledge made him want her even more. Perhaps she was one of those women a man must force to his will. Of course! That would have been the way the Fiacre lord, Vartan, obtained her. Lara was a strong woman. She needed a strong man to tell her what to do, and how to do it. Then she would melt with passion.
IN THE DARK of an early winter’s night Arcas made his way to Lara’s chamber. He entered quietly, making his way to her bedside. Flinging off his chamber robe he gazed down at her sleeping form. She was exquisite. Perfectly made with lovely breasts, and just the faintest swell of belly. Her skin was like white silk. Her golden hair like thistledown. His male member was hard with his deep longing for her. He was about to climb into her bed and take her for his own when suddenly her eyes opened. Even in the dimly lit room he could see the icy green glare.
“Get out!” she said quietly.
Arcas was about to bluster a refusal when he became painfully aware that his male organ had suddenly gone limp, and was shrinking at a most alarming rate.
“Get out,” Lara repeated, “or do you wish me to make it disappear entirely, Arcas?” Her cold voice matched her cold eyes.
The Coastal King turned and fled, not even bothering to gather up his robe. Looking at it, Lara pointed a finger, and the garment disappeared. Then turning over she went back to sleep again. But when the morning came, she found she was very angry. She would not tell Archeron of his son’s breach of good manners. It would hurt the man who was sheltering her so generously, and drive a wedge between father and son. She could not do that. It is time
