Page 2

“Bastard sons by base born women.” Ilyne has seen Rafus’s clutch of bastards in the palace. Ignoble wretches paraded around as if they were fine princelings.

“And you think if he sired a bastard on you he would be forced to wed you to keep peace with Fanost?” Karo leans forward to pour more wine into Ilyne’s cup. “But, you see, Fanost does not have the strength to rise up against the Azurian Empire. If you try to withhold your grain from us, the Imperial Army will simply go and take it. Your country is far to important to Selim’s plans for him to allow any rebellion. In a handful of years, Fanost will be the empire’s gateway to the east. Plans are already well in motion for more expansion. If the empire needs to subdue Fanost by force to meet its aims, it will do so.”

Ilyne swallows. “So you are here to warn me off. To tell me that if I were to have a son by Prince Rafus he would be declared a bastard by the Rose Court?”

“He will be. However, I am not here to warn you off. I am here to make sure that son is born.”

Ilyne looks at Karo in surprise. She takes up her refilled cup and clutches it to her chest. “You wish for your husband to commit such a sin?”

Karo simply nods as if this is an entirely normal conversation. “It is written into your betrothal agreement that your line will retain the title of Duke of Fanost. Rafus will not wed you, but if he sired a bastard son upon you, that son would be heir to the Duchy. And if the Rose Court were forced to make a bastard a duke, you could easily claim they ought to make one a prince, also.”

Ilyne does not know what to say. She had always assumed from Karo’s dress and manner that she was almost as devout as Selim. And yet, here she is advocating the most sinful of things. “You wish to undermine the bloodright of your husband’s children by Princess Ullinor.” Ilyne supposes that could make sense.

Karo leans forward and says, “His bed chamber is through that corridor,” she points, “the second door on the left. He is waiting for you.”

2

KERIK

TWENTY FIVE YEARS LATER

Kerik Darekul finds himself sitting at a table in what appears to be the kitchen of a small keep. There are walls of greyish stone. Through several small windows the view is of nothing but dark. A fire burns in a wide hearth. Several candles dance on the table. The air smells of smoke and dust. It is a mean place. The table before him is plain scrubbed wood. Books and papers are strewn across it suggesting it is used for scholarly work more often than for preparing or consuming food. Kerik's nose wrinkles at the thought. He was never a fan of book learning.

Kerik’s hands are behind his chair. Bound behind the chair. He’s wearing old, worn clothes he doesn’t recognise, simple wool breeches and a linen shirt.

He has no idea where he is or how he came to be here. It feels to him almost as if he woke from sleep to find himself in this room, upon this chair

A tall man sits opposite him. A very striking tall man, dressed in black. A strange black leather outfit that is high on his neck and with narrow sleeves that cover his arms to the wrists, laced tight by way of leather thongs threaded through silver hooks. Jewels on his pale hands sparkle in the candlelight; silver rings on most of his fingers. On his left hand the rings are joined together in an elegant web of chains that connect to a silver cuff around his wrist.

His long hair, moonlight-pale like his skin, is caught in a braid that snakes over his shoulder, so long the end of it vanishes below the table’s edge.

Kerik blinks at him. He looks very serious. Pompous.

When Kerik dredges his mind for his last memory, he remembers being in the Rose Palace, but he feels sure that was long ago, perhaps even years ago.

Where has he been since then?

Before he can ask a single question, and he has very many, the striking, serious man says, “Would you like some tea?” He pushes a cup across the table toward Kerik. Steam rises from it.

Kerik looks at the cup, then at his captor. He doesn’t look as if he’d be much use in a fight. Limp as a fading flower. Kerik could beat this man unconscious with his bare fists if he wasn’t bound to this fucking chair. “How am I meant to drink that?” he says with a sour curl of his lip. Although his mouth is very dry and the truth is he would love some tea.

The man’s voice is cool as he returns, “Your bindings are enchanted. They will allow you to move your hands and arms to drink the tea, just not rise from the chair or hurt me or yourself.”

Kerik frowns, because this sounds quite ridiculous, but when he moves his right arm he finds he can easily bring it around the chair to reach for the teacup, while his left hand still seems to be firmly held in place. When his right arm is in view, there do not appear to be any ropes or chains holding it, but he feels as if something is. Something he cannot see. He feels a little queasy at the thought. He decides instead to focus on the tea. He brings the cup to his lips and takes a sip. It’s warm and good. It soothes the ache in his parched throat.

Where is he?

He glances at the dark windows again. Somewhere cold. Somewhere in the north. Ceruleum? Somewhere near there in the Northern wilds?

He looks at the man again as he swallows. “So you practice magic. Magic is against the will of Zai.”

“Yes. However we are not in Azuria if the strict laws of the Empire concern you.”

Not in Azuria? So not Ceruleum?

Where the fuck is he?

Kerik takes another drink of tea. He is not sure what he ought to say. His head feels heavy and strange. His skin is oddly prickly.