“How pleasing to your humble servant to be a source of amusement for your royal personages,” he said stiffly and without a trace of sarcasm.
“Oh, Orkid, don’t take it to heart,” Areava said lightly, and went to him. “You are more than that to me.”
Orkid sighed. “Oh, such relief.”
“Why, Orkid, I believe you actually tried to be funny.”
“Tried?” he asked glumly. “Well, I am employed as your chancellor, not your jester.”
“Come and sit with us.” She took his hand and drew him to the stone seat. “We were actually discussing matters of state, particularly pertaining to your brother. Why has he not sent his agreement to the council’s condition for the marriage?”
Orkid shrugged. “I imagine he is thinking up some way to bargain with it.”
“Exactly what Sendarus said. You Amanites all think alike.”
“I have come about another matter. One just as pressing.”
Areava raised an eyebrow. “What matter could possibly be as important as my marriage?”
“The matter of your brother, your Majesty, the outlaw Prince Lynan.”
“Oh.” Her jollity disappeared. She slumped down next to Sendarus.
“You asked me to pursue the matter. I believe a solution may have presented itself.”
“In what way?”
“You can come now!” Orkid called out. A moment later Jes Prado appeared and stood by Orkid’s side. The queen studied him closely. He was looking a hundred times better than the first time she had seen him in her chambers all those weeks ago now, but there was still something hard and cruel about his eyes and the thin set of his mouth, and something threatening about the way he stood, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. His thickly braided gray hair, scarred face, and crooked nose only added to the sense of menace that accompanied him like a shadow.
“The first time we met you brought me bad news,” the queen said evenly. “I hope you have something better for me this time.”
“I wish it had not been me who brought you such evil tidings. But I think I can offer your Majesty a remedy to this particular wound.”
Areava glanced at Orkid, but his expression gave nothing away. “Go on.”
“You know my past?”
“Of course,” she said, her distaste obvious.
“Then I suggest you put it to use.”
“I will not tolerate the resurrection of slavery in my kingdom,” she said quietly.
“Nor should you,” Prado replied quickly. “But mercenaries still have their use. Even now you employ them on the border with Haxus.”
“In small numbers.”
“Let me raise my old company, and give me your warrant to raise more. I will set out to hunt down and capture Lynan for you.”
“I want him killed, not captured.”
“Even easier.”
The words sent a chill down Areava’s spine. She controlled it, ashamed of her reaction. “What is your opinion?” she asked Orkid. Orkid simply nodded. “Do you have particulars?”
“Not yet,” Orkid said. “I wanted you to hear the suggestion yourself before going into any more detail.”
“Do so. The council meets in three days’ time; give me your report before then and I will present it.”
Orkid and Prado bowed and left.
“I do not like that man,” Sendarus said.
“You don’t have to like a rock to crush a spider with it,” she said.
The boy was about four years old. He lay in a tight crumpled heap in his cot, his breathing labored, his face shiny with sweat in the torch light.
“What is it?” Olio asked, running a hand through his unruly brown hair, struggling to fight off the exhaustion that seemed his constant companion these days.
The priest laid a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead. “Asthma. He has had it since he was three months old. It has become worse in the last year. He has been like this for several days now. He doesn’t eat and throws up most of what he drinks.”
“Is he dying?”
“Yes, your Highness, he is dying. He will not live to see the morning.”
Olio sighed deeply and looked at Edaytor Fanhow. “I have no choice. I cannot refuse to heal him, despite my assurance to you that I would not use the Key.”
Edaytor looked grim. “No. I see that.”
Olio nodded to the priest, who stepped back, then laid his right hand on the boy’s heaving chest. With his left he pulled out the Key of the Heart—shaped like a triangle with a solid heart placed in its center—from behind his shirt and grasped it firmly. “All right.”
Edaytor laid his hands on Olio’s slender shoulders. Almost immediately, he felt magickal power surge through the prince. No matter how many times he did this with Olio, the strength of the magic surprised him, but this time he was also surprised at the speed with which it came. The Key was becoming aligned to its owner. He wondered if Olio would soon be able to do without a magicker’s assistance at all. The thought worried him.
Olio started to slump, and Edaytor pulled him back from the cot. The prince cried out weakly, then rested against the prelate.
“Your Highness?” the priest asked, concerned. He was newly assigned to the hospice, and had never worked with the prince before.
Olio held his hand up. “I am all right. A little weary, that’s all.”
“Come, sit down.” The priest and Edaytor guided him to a wooden stool. “Do you want me to get you something?”
“No,” he answered, then almost immediately. “Yes. Wine.”
“Your Highness—” Edaytor started, but Olio’s angry glare stopped him.
“Just a cup, Prelate.”
The priest returned with the wine. Olio drank it greedily and handed the cup back.
“More, your Highness?” the priest asked.
“No,” Edaytor said firmly. The priest glanced from the prelate to the prince and back to the prelate again. “No,” Edaytor repeated. “Thank you. I must speak with the prince. Alone.”
The priest scurried off.
“I wouldn’t have asked for more,” Olio said, his voice almost a whine.
“Then I saved you the trouble of telling him yourself.”
Olio stood up unsteadily. Edaytor reached out to him, but Olio waved him away. “I thought you trusted me.”
Before Edaytor could reply, a little voice said: “I’m hungry.” The sick boy was sitting up in his cot. He looked thin and pale, but his breathing was normal. “I’m hungry,” he said again.
“I’ll get you something,” Olio said. “How are you feeling?”
The boy thought about it for a moment. “Hungry.”
“Then we’ll feed you a mountain.” He faced the prelate. “Is this not worth all?”
Edaytor blushed, ashamed he had no reply.
Now that the executive council had met half a dozen times, its members had gravitated to sitting in the same position at the table at every meeting. Areava sat at one end, flanked by Orkid and Olio; down the right-hand side, from Areava’s perspective, sat government officials such as Har-nan Beresard, Prelate Edaytor Fanhow, and Kendra’s mayor Shant Tenor, as well as those members of the Twenty Houses given seats on the council, most prominently Areava’s cousin Galen Amptra. On the left-hand side sat the various representatives of the kingdom’s guilds and mer-Ghant houses, as well as Primate Giros Northam, leader of the Church of the Righteous God, and his secretary and Areava’s confessor, Father Powl. At the end of the table sat Fleet Admiral Zoul Setchmar and Marshal Triam Lief on either side of the new constable, Dejanus.
Sunlight poured into the room from the long glass windows in one wall. The members waited for Areava to start, but she was busy conferring with Orkid. A few were taking notes or catching up on paperwork, one or two looked bored and were stifling yawns. Most simply waited patiently.
“You will have heard my brother is still alive,” Areava said suddenly. One or two members jumped in their seats.
“We have heard rumors, your Majesty,” Father Powl said, “but not the whole story.”