“And the alliance squeezes them for every bushel. Farmers are fined and their children conscripted if they fail to produce their portion, even if giving a full portion will not leave enough for their family or their village. Even if it means that the next year, they will produce even less, because they have not the same number of children to work the fields with them. And those conscripted children are not allowed to return to their villages after serving in the guard, because the queen fears an armed resistance—and she would not train the soldiers who would rise up against her. Yet she cannot reduce the number of her guard, and she cannot loosen her grip upon the farmers, because the alliance makes certain to tell her that the Parsatheans will withdraw from the Lave and her people will all be raped and killed by savages if Goge does not deliver every sack of grain demanded.”
“Is this truth?” He searched her face, not truly doubting, but also struggling to believe. “I have fought alongside Gogean soldiers. They never spoke of hunger or the crown’s tyranny.”
“If you doubt me, speak to the villagers or to the queen’s guard.” With a subtle gesture, she indicated the Gogean captain who sat with his soldiers at the other end of the room. “If they will speak of it. But do not call it cowardice if they refuse. If forced to decide between indulging a Parsathean warrior’s curiosity and protecting their families—considering they might be punished for what they say—speaking might not be their choice.”
Perhaps not. Still Maddek would find out more before he left Goge. Because he would fight for and support the alliance, but such tactics could not be tolerated.
In that, Yvenne seemed of the same mind. Little wonder that she cut him down for speaking of the Gogeans in such a manner. He deserved it.
But was she certain all was as she claimed? Her mother had died three years ago.
“You know of this from Queen Vyssen?”
“Yes. But more recently from my younger brother, on the council.” Her gaze flickered for a moment. “And I have heard it from others.”
Others? While locked in her tower?
Sharply he asked, “Do you speak of my mother?”
Her expression froze, eyes wide and gleaming, her face suddenly bloodbare with a stark fear that gave him no pleasure to see—and then she pressed her lips together, as if to protect her tongue from his ripping fingers, before slowly nodding.
At least she did not lie.
“Do not again,” he warned her harshly. “Whether you use a sly tongue to speak of her or say her name aloud, my vow still stands.”
Swallowing hard, Yvenne nodded again, and the bloodbare fear faded into something both weary and longing. “May I speak of what was said regarding the alliance?”
Because she was still a queen in heart and mind, and worth listening to. Throat raw, Maddek took a swig and forced it down before he nodded.
“One hope is that burdens within the alliance might be shifted. Ephorn never hungers or thirsts, yet it sends soldiers to the Lave rather than provisions. But if we—Syssia and Parsathe—are united, we will have a stronger voice within the council. With Goge, that would be fully half the alliance who could argue for a better agreement that more evenly weighs contributions, and that does not place so much of the responsibility for the safety of every realm on either the Gogeans or the Parsatheans.”
A sensible plan. Yet still his throat burned with a pain the mead could not soothe. “This is your hope or my mother’s?”
“Both.”
“She never spoke of such hopes to me.”
“Perhaps she believed there would be more time. Or perhaps because she was a queen, and you are not yet a king.” Her voice was not unkind but still as merciless as a sword. “Perhaps she knew you are but a warrior. A fine warrior, but only a warrior—so when you look at others, you only look for weakness. You look for how to strike them down. That is what a warrior sees.”
So he did. A harsh laugh escaped him. “And a king does not see weakness?”
A poor king that would be.
“He does see it.” Her warm gaze moved across his face. “But when a king looks at a people—whether his people or not—he also sees their suffering.”
Tightly Maddek nodded. He had wished for guidance this day, advice to help untangle the problem of his bride. He had wished for his mother’s and his father’s simple lessons. Yet instead the lesson came from the woman who twisted him up so fiercely.
Still simple. But much more bitter.
She glanced away from him as the serving woman returned, announcing that her bath was prepared.
Biting her soft bottom lip, Yvenne looked to Maddek. “Do you want me to stay?”
He shook his head. “Have Fassad escort you to the chamber. If you wish for privacy, ask him to stand outside the door. Keep the dogs with you as you bathe.”
She watched him a moment more. Sighing, she finally stood, then stumbled when she swung her left leg over the bench and brought her weight down upon it. Maddek caught her waist. She steadied herself with her hands braced against his shoulders, then softly said, “You are already a fine leader, Maddek. And you will be Ran.” An impish smile curved her mouth. “But just as I will see to making your life a misery, I will also see to your becoming a great king.”
A gentle tease that he could not help but respond to—for he was absolutely certain she would do both. With an amused grunt, he told her, “Go on.”
Her hands slipped from his shoulders, and as his bride backed away she reminded him, “Wake me.”
“I will.” Maddek had not forgotten the promise of her mouth.
But that would come later. First he would learn more about the suffering that he’d been too blinded by his sword to see. His gaze fixed across the room, where the captain and his soldiers still feasted, their sullen recruits at a nearby table.
Perhaps they would not speak about hunger or tyranny. But mead always had a way of loosening tongues.
Rising to his feet, Maddek signaled to a barmaid for more drink.
CHAPTER 15
YVENNE
Yvenne could not decide which was more harrowing: seeing the blood wraiths in the fog . . . or facing the stairs that led to the inn’s guest chambers.
Her heart raced as the serving maid ascended ahead of her, leading the way. So quickly did the maid climb that she’d reached the upper landing before Yvenne mounted the first step.
Fassad followed her. Perhaps he noticed nothing amiss. Yvenne had been moving awkwardly for days. Her slow ascent while desperately clinging to the railing likely seemed yet another manifestation of her saddle soreness. But it was not her aching muscles or her shattered knee that hindered her, though she had to be careful—stepping up with her right leg and bringing her left even, before stepping up with her right again.