Nayil had cared for Ran Marek’s in the same way, but never would the silver shine bright again. Age and use had scuffed the surface and worn thin the image stamped into the metal—a firebloom’s petals, the mark of his father’s tribe. When Maddek had last seen it, Ran Ashev’s crest was equally worn, the winged dragon of Ran Bantik’s line no longer standing in sharp relief, its stamped edges dulled by time. That same dragon decorated Maddek’s own crest, its wings cradling a firebloom, and on either side of the mark was etched his parents’ names. But although his father’s ring now circled his finger, his mother’s did not lie beside it. Her family crest had not been among the belongings Zhalen had returned to the alliance council, though his mother’s sword, shield, and the silver claws she wore into battle had been.
Stolen, then. The thief-king himself would not have taken a silver crest from a warrior’s thumb, whether enemy or friend. Yet Zhalen had dishonored his mother even in that small way.
And Maddek had been forbidden to raise his sword against him.
Throat aching, he swept the pad of his thumb over his father’s crest—remembering another night, another fire, and his father’s words to him then.
Wars are fought on battlefields, my son. Yet it is in throne rooms where wars are lost—or won.
But his father had been wrong. Maddek had spent the past ten years upon battlefields. And he had won. Battle after battle, season after season, until few threats to the alliance remained, until even the savages could be held back by a small company of soldiers on the river Lave. Wars were not won or lost in throne rooms; they were won or lost upon the bloodied edge of a warrior’s sword.
Throne rooms were where a man was told he could not wage war upon those who most deserved it.
But Maddek would have Zhalen’s head. He would hold Bazir’s wriggling tongue between his fingers.
He would have his vengeance.
And he would honor the life’s work of his mother and his father. He would strengthen the alliance. He would be the king his people needed and deserved.
Temra help him see a way to do it all. For he could not.
Heart heavy, Maddek closed his burning eyes. He opened them again at the sound of approaching footsteps. Silently came Etan, one of the warriors posted on watch. With him was the one whose feet made noise—a tall, slender woman in dark robes. Maddek knew little about women from the southern realms who were not soldiers, and he could not always recognize their origins in the differences marked by their manner and dress. But this woman wore her dark hair in two braids that started at her temples and wound around the back of her head in a crown before falling straight down her back as a single thick braid—in the manner of a Syssian.
Etan crouched beside him. “This woman claims an urgent need to speak with you. She would not give her message for me to pass on.”
Maddek studied her for another moment. It was a bold request, yet the woman did not appear bold. Instead she fidgeted, her fingers twisting together while looking all around with wide eyes, as if she expected attack to come from the darkness surrounding the camp.
Finally he inclined his head. “She may speak.”
At a word from Etan, the woman took the warrior’s place, her robes settling around her on a waft of anise perfume. Someone from within a noble house, then. A servant or a lady’s companion but not a lady herself. Her robes were roughly woven rather than of silk or fine linen.
Her hands trembled but her gaze was earnest upon his. Firelight gleamed in the darkness of her eyes. “Commander, do you wish to avenge your queen and king?”
Her words were dull knives shoved through his ribs. Was this woman sent here by Bazir to mock him? For the Syssian liar must know that Maddek had been forbidden to take his vengeance.
Quietly he said, “Upon that matter, you will hold your tongue if you wish to keep it in your head.”
Even in the dim glow of the fire and the darkness of her skin, he could see the bloodbare fear that bleached her cheeks.
Her voice trembled as she continued. “I know how you might have that vengeance against the one who lured your parents to Syssia.”
His eyes narrowed. Few people—and only fools—would have spoken after such a warning. This woman did not seem a fool. She only seemed terrified.
And she spoke as if reciting lines given to her, for although her words were full of conviction and purpose, she had barely enough courage to sit at his side.
He studied her more closely. An old scar bisected her left eyebrow, but he could see no other injury. Her nose was straight, her teeth strong and fine, and she had moved easily beneath her robes and wrapped linens. If she had been forced to come here, she had not been compelled by a beating. “Who sent you to me?”
Some of her agitation eased. Her eyes held his steadily, earnest again. Eager to offer the words, then—yet still relieved that he knew these words were not her own. “I represent someone with no love for Zhalen. Someone who would like to see him destroyed more than you do.”
A harsh laugh shook him, and Maddek gestured to Etan that he was done. “No one wants that more than I do. Now leave me be.”
“There is a daughter,” she said quickly as the warrior bent to take her arm. “A woman of Nyset’s bloodline.”
His gaze shot to hers again. “What do you say?”
“You may not touch Zhalen or his sons,” she said, her breath coming in panicked spurts as she pulled against Etan’s hands—as if afraid of being carried away before her message was delivered. “But there is a daughter. An heir with moonstone eyes. It was she who sent the letter that brought your parents to their end.”
A daughter. Purpose hot and fierce rose in Maddek’s chest. He stopped Etan with a lift of his hand. “Where is she now?”
“A full day east of Ephorn, on the road to Toleh.” Now courage rose in the woman, hard anger lighting her eyes and her soft fingers curling to fists. “Where Zhalen is sending her to be married to that old lech of a king.”
So that Zhalen and his offspring would sit upon the thrones of three realms within the alliance, spreading his corruption. But not if Maddek took Nyset’s heir and prevented the marriage. “How many soldiers serve as her escort?”
“A dozen, perhaps.”
Sudden anger hardened his tongue. But it was Maddek’s first captain who replied, and her thoughts echoed his.
“This woman is either a fool or a liar,” Enox said from her furs. “Send her away.”
“A dozen,” the woman repeated firmly. “There is a wedding caravan with a large escort that travels the main road to Toleh. But Zhalen believed that party might attract thieves. He sent his daughter on the southern track so she might pass through the hills unmolested.”