So he'd had nothing and no one to guide him when it first began. He'd been just a boy, no more than eleven, and it was even thought for a time that he'd required spectacles to help him see.
They hadn't helped.
As the years passed, Sandu had come to realize that his vision blurred only when he was looking at words. Language didn't matter; ink didn't matter; paper or vellum or tapestry—none of that mattered. If he stared hard enough, if he concentrated, the blurring cleared and he could see the new words squeezed through the old ones. Indeed, if he studied it long enough, the old message disappeared entirely, leaving only the true one. The one perhaps the author had never meant to be read.
Oh, he'd learned reams about his people through their hidden words.
Most of it was fine. Most of it was exactly what he would expect of a tribe of bare-handed farmers and shepherds: minor disputes and jealousies, love affairs, petty thefts. They were more human than not, these scattered drakon of the mountains. He wondered if that was why their squabbles seemed so slight.
The royals surrounding him, however ... they were more worrisome.
By the right of their blood, they dwelled in the Tears of Ice with their prince. They were counts and sons of counts, lords and ladies, and nearly all the males could Turn. It was through the luck of his sister, the former princess, that Sandu now ruled.
Since his maturity he'd made certain that he remained ruler by anything but luck.
He'd been graced with exceptional Gifts. Only a fool would have failed to use them.
He required his nobles to submit any request to him, no matter how inconsequential, in writing. It was how he knew Lord Oreste despised him; that Lady Lucia's beloved son was not of her husband; that the brothers Bazna were dense but trustworthy and their cousin Count Radu of Sinaia anything but. So many secrets, just waiting to be spilled with a stroke of ink.
Until he'd been brought up to the castle at the age of seven, Alexandru knew nothing about any of these particular kin except that they were the white-wigged, glistening aristocracy of his tribe, those who neither sweated nor toiled, yet lived off the fat of the land.
Now he rather imagined he knew them better than they did themselves. He knew their hearts, at least. What they desired. What they most feared.
That was the key to power. Understanding another's true heart.
He leaned forward in his chair, pushed the two foreign-stamped letters side by side until their edges touched, until the very different words shone in their very different colors, spoke to him again in their genuine words: I love you. Beware .
His fingers drummed atop the pages. True hearts never lied.
He'd remained in the library. He'd taken his evening meal there because it had seemed the most expedient thing to do, and because he knew it would set his supper guest more at ease. Count Radu would be smugly pleased to see Alexandru eating goulash from a tray like a common servant.
He kept most of the chamber sparsely lit, the corners all in shadow, the ceiling high above them a mask of dusk. As the twilight descended he allowed the fire in the hearth a sullen smoldering, but the thirteen beeswax candles of the candelabra just behind him burned much brighter than those last few flames. He knew the candles cast a halo about his unpowdered hair—worn long and loose, just as the old princes of the realm used to do—and effectively shaded his face and hands. His gaze. The single most telling aspect about him, in fact, would be the silver spoon in his grip.
The former Alphas stared down from their portraits on the walls, severe in their silence. Sandu kept them clustered in here, in this private domain, where he could stare back at them openly whenever he wished.
He'd never had his own painted. Probably because he never thought he'd last here as long as he had.
Radu's chair had been placed to face his prince, and so Alexandru had a very good view of him: the aquiline nose, the opaque black eyes, the deep, permanent line engraved between his eyebrows. His wig was iron gray, a plain queue, no curls. The ruffled lace along his bib glowed with the candlelight, distinct down to the last intricate knot. The count's lips kept a constant, derisive smile. Sandu sometimes wondered if it was still a willful effort for him, or if his mouth had finally frozen into its sneer.
"More wine?" he inquired, leaning forward to offer the carafe.
"No, my lord."
They were a dozen years and a universe apart. Radu was older, an animal nearly beyond his prime, and beneath his poise and his half-lidded gaze, he remained utterly hostile. Unlike Alexandru, he'd been born a courtier, and was in fact a cousin by marriage to the former prince. Had he a fraction more of the Gifts, there was no doubt he would be sitting with the light behind him in this library right now.
Praise the stars he could not Turn.
Alexandru knew the count hated him with a passion that even his letters could scarcely contain.
"A calm night," Sandu said, resting the rim of his spoon on the ceramic bowl before him. "No winds, good moonlight. I thought perhaps I'd visit your holding."
"I'd be honored, of course."
"Your sheep are well?"
The smile grew more acerbic. "So I've heard." "Excellent."
Sandu lifted another bite of goulash, savoring the fragrance of seared beef and onions, sharp paprika. The silver spoon moaned an eldritch song against his lips.
"Are you certain you wouldn't like a bowl?" He returned the count's smile from over the spoon. "It's an old family recipe."
And it was . somewhat. When he'd helped his mother make it as a boy—back when his mother was still alive, on those cold, cold winter nights— there'd been onions and potatoes for the pot but no beef. Beef was an extravagance young Sandu had only ever heard about.
For an instant emotion flared behind the other man's eyes, something a step beyond smugness; beef or no,gulyds was the fodder of peasants. "I fear I've already supped." He gave a small nod of his head.
"Noble One."
"Very well."
Sandu kept him there in the growing hush, the night beyond the windows thickening to sapphire. He allowed his gaze to rest upon the embers of the fire and devoured every bite of his meal. Radu didn't stir.
"I'd like you to draw me a map," Sandu said at last. He leaned back, touched his napkin to the corners of his mouth. "It's been so long since I've flown as far as Sinaia. I've no desire to lose my way."
"Of course," said Radu again. He rose without bowing, approached the desk and began a swift sketch with the quill and ink Sandu had already set out.
"My friend," Alexandru said, watching him, "you have your ear to the ground, so to speak. Have you heard anything new about the sanf inimicus? Gossip? Whispers?"
The other drakon 's hand never faltered. "No, my lord."
"Or of the English?"
"Nothing." Radu tossed down the quill, straightening from the map with a quick, jerky movement.
"Oh—pray don't forget to write in the names of the lakes," Sandu said mildly. "I find them immensely helpful."
The map was simple but surprisingly well done. It was clear Radu had some skills, at least, beyond subterfuge; every line was certain, every image perfectly identifiable. He'd even drawn in his flocks, clusters of sheep and goats and cows scattered amid the forest meadows.
The lakes' names were scribbled in black. Lacul Rosu, Bicaz, Spatar Cantacuzino. Between each one oozed fresh red letters, bleeding through as strong and thick as all the other marks.