A soft breeze caressed her eyelids, cold as the gray dawn. Meya opened her eyes. Fine curtains fluttered just beyond her reach. Through the window, Aynor was still blanketed in sleepy gray. Just underneath the chatter of early birds, she heard Mum's breathing, steady and slow. Dad was no longer snoring the room down from his spot by the fireplace. He insisted the hard floor was ideal for his aching back, but Mum and Meya knew better.
Meya smoothed her hand down her belly, sighing softly into the still air. The door creaked, then, followed by the rustle of delicate fabric chafing against prickly carpet material. A jolt of fear coursed through her—then she realized only a few would have access to their key. The staff probably would be better off stealing from the Hadrians down the hall. That leaves—
A pale, smiling face poked its way around the corner of the four-poster, completing her answer. Meya closed her eyes and sunk limply onto the bed. Her heart pounded faster as he crept nearer, then froze at the touch of his icy lips on hers. She resisted the urge to reciprocate, taunting him—but Lord Hadrian wasn't bred for meek surrender.
"Come now. I saw your eyes," he whispered between kisses and laughter. Meya smiled in the dark as she slid her hand around his nape.
"What in Fyr's name are you doing here?" She murmured.
"Delivering my regards to the May Queen—have her know I'm still breathing?" Coris moved on to nibble at her ear. Meya rolled her eyes in amusement,
"Bullcrap. You miss me already."
"How can't I?" Coris admitted suspiciously simply. His cool breath puffed into her ear, "Where there were five soft, warm, springy pillows wrapped in silk, only one remains to soothe my weary head."
Heat flushed Meya's cheeks quite a moment too late. She longed to sock him on his old sore spot, but Mum and Dad would definitely hear the impact. She settled for depriving him of air instead.
"—Uuummph!"
Coris sprang back, his spider hands waving desperately, eyes squeezed tight in pain. Meya relaxed her fingers and he pulled his nose free. After a moment of wary observation, he braved her fury again and nestled his head between his beloved pillows.
"Can't wait to see you in that dress—then out." He joked. At that, a chilling realization lit up Meya's brain like a bright shaft of light, shunting his cheeky remark to the side.
"Oh, Freda. I completely forgot." Meya breathed, eyes bulging in terror. Coris pulled away, blinking blankly, then caught up—
"You forgot!?" He hissed, building himself up to a Coris tantrum. Meya rolled her eyes as she launched straight into her tirade,
"Agh, come now. D'you expect me to remember after all that yesterday? And I didnae got the chance to. I was crying, Mum was hugging me, next thing I know 'tis dawn out the window—"
Coris waved her excuses aside with a careless hand.
"No matter. Soon as they're up, ask them. I'll be off—" He brushed her a farewell kiss as he rose—then froze halfway to his feet, wide silvery eyes fixed upon the thin air behind her. Meya didn't have time to decipher the implications before a familiar sweet, hoarse voice answered her worst nightmare—
"Ask us what?"
Meya rolled over. Mum had sat up beside her, arms crossed over her chest. Dad stood with one hand on the headboard, the other thankfully empty at his side, not brandishing his trusty sickle-on-a-broom-handle.
Coris bounced upright, his clammy hand lathering hers with sweat as he clutched it tight for dear life.
"Farmer Hild. Alanna. A splendid morning to you both!" He proclaimed heartily, dipped a graceful bow, then rambled with carefully planned fluster, "I apologize for coming to call so early. You see—after two months with Meya by my side—I can hardly bear being parted—"
"—with your soft, warm, springy silk pillows you can't wait to undress. Yes, we heard."
Dad drawled coolly, his brown eyes staring unblinking at the shameless lad who still hadn't even earned his approval. Blood drained from Coris's face. Scratching his chin and chuckling meekly in defeat, he followed the command from Dad's roving death glare, relinquished Meya's hand, straightened his shirt, then edged a step away from the bed, as Meya also awkwardly fixed her nightdress. Mum shook her head and rolled her eyes as she grumbled to herself, then steered the conversation back to what mattered,
"What are you having our Meya do, my lord?"
Coris and Meya shared a quick look. When Meya sighed and thrust her chin in grudging defeat, Coris narrowed his eyes to scold her then turned back to Mum with a polite smile.
"The King will host a feast at the palace tonight to welcome the visiting dukes." He tilted his head at Meya, "Meya's agreed to join, and you two are welcome to accompany us if you'd like, but we'd also like your permission to present her as the new Song of May Day, and—" He glanced at Meya again, and gently took her hand, "—if we have your blessing, Lady Hadrian."
As Coris sank to one knee, Mum and Dad turned to one another, their impassive eyes empty to Meya trading entire letters between themselves. With all their recent disagreements, will she and Coris ever reach that level of solidarity someday? Meya couldn't help pondering.
Coris dipped his head lower.
"She's been practicing for her debut. We're hoping you'd mentor her and come if only to cheer her on. It would do much to bolster her spirits."
Mum averted her eyes as she thought, whereas Dad's eyes remain fixed on Coris as he caressed his beard slowly. At last, his lips moved,
"You said Meya's half-dragon and she caused the Famine. And dragons from Nostra are infiltrating Latakia. 'Tis how all this came about."
He thrust his hand towards the two of them. Coris nodded. Air itself seemed to have frozen solid as the men locked eyes, as the implication sank in. Dad's hands balled into shaking fists.
"You'll tell the King what Greeneyes really are. And you know what will happen to them." He raised a trembling finger trained at Coris's heart, his voice raging fiercer as he went, "'Tis why you're hurrying to show her to Latakia. Have her speak for Greeneyes across the land. Charm them with her Song—!" He jabbed his finger at the window.
"—I'd never ask such a thing of her." Coris shook his head, his eyes unwavering, "I simply wish to share what I've discovered, so they'd see what I saw in her. Then they'd understand there's nothing to fear. Our likeness is greater than our differences. That would benefit her cause—"
"—Your cause, not hers!" Dad roared.
"—It's our cause, Dad!" cried Meya. As Dad's blazing eyes bore down on her, she wrapped his roughened, thickened hand in both of hers, pleading.
"Dad, I was almost lost last Fest. All them towns Coris took me to—I saw how they treat Greeneyes there. Every ounce of our being could be traded like goods and wares. If we don't tell them anything, nothing will change."
Dad turned pointedly away. Meya tugged harder on his hand, desperate.
"I have to do this. If I'm their best bet and no-one else would take a stand, then at least someone's gotta be first—"
"—And 'tis not you!" Dad spun back. Meya shivered—not out of fear of him, but of the truth in his words, as he took her arms and shook her, glowering deep into her eyes.
"You're barely seventeen. You want the whole rest of your life decided by this? You wanna live your life under a thousand staring eyes? Carry the hopes of every Greeneye in Latakia?" He turned and seethed at Coris, "You may be bred for this, milord, but not her."
"I agree. That's why we're asking for your permission," Coris agreed so readily, it took Dad back. Then he dropped the twist just as nonchalantly, "—I'm asking, at least. It is Meya's idea, after all."
Meya blanched white then flushed bright red in rapid succession.
"Coris!" She screamed at the betrayal.
"I'm just afraid it's your guilt talking again, Meya." Coris retorted sharply, flinching not a nerve as he braved her flaring eyes, "You don't owe this land for existing any more than I do—less, even, considering the pittance it gave you. It's not worth tainting your Song again."
His silvery eyes pierced deep into hers. He remembered her last song in the Blue Mountains. The song she had come to despise, that still left a taste like bile in her throat. But he didn't understand. This wasn't the same. Was it?
Meya hung her head, stubbornly standing her ground even as she doubted it. A hand creamy white as eggshell crept in and clasped over hers. She looked up to find Mum's loving blue eyes.
"Meya—Songbird—" she tucked a rebellious coil of gold dawn behind Meya's ear,
"'Tis not my place to tell you how or even if you should put your blessing to use. But as a fool who'd milked her Song dry for gold and fame, such that she'd only remembered how to truly sing once the Song had left her, I hope you'd take my tale as caution when you decide."
She cradled Meya's cheek in her palm, the pad of her thumb rubbing gently on her skin.
"Why do you want to sing so much?"
The simple question hid layers beneath. Meya's eyes strayed to the faint shadow rippling on the blanket covering her legs as it darkened with every new ray of the waking sun. She sunk deep within herself, scouring the void for her true voice.
"I just want to. I'm just looking for an excuse to, I reckon." Shaking her head, she confessed with a shrug, then gathered her courage and raised her eyes,
"I dun care about no gold, no fame. I'll stand for Greeneyes, but not by singing to butter them dukes up for them. I just have this beautiful Song I want them all to hear and be happy. 'Tisn't about what I owe or what I'm owed. 'Tis simply something I can give freely without a care. And I want to."
Coris was blinking, his mouth hanging ajar. Dad gritted his teeth, then pressed a trembling hand over his eyes. She'd feared they might mock her audacity, laugh in derision, but they seemed more to be despairing at her naïve, reckless kindness. So, she focused on Mum. Mum of all people would understand.
"I know 'twasn't gold nor fame you did it for neither, Mum." She rested her hand atop Mum's still on her cheek, shaking her head, "You're just too kind, so you gave too much, but you only had your rotten ringmaster. I have you and Dad and Coris and everyone to stop me, to remind me never to forget how to sing from the heart—or, brain, in donghead terms."
She tossed Coris a wry sideways grin, and his fear melted away as his taut eyebrows unwound. He stared at her with eyes glazed with longing, his smile slack with awe. Meya blushed as she broke the contact, tugging absently on the ends of her hair. She glanced at Mum. Her smile brimming with pride and love, Mum cocked her head.
"Then I guess there is but one obstacle left."
Mum shone her smile at Dad, leaving dread to steal air from the room once more. Meya leaned in and took his hand again, whispering with every ounce of her.
"Please, Dad."
Dad stared long and hard at Meya, then turned to the boy standing just behind her, his fists clenched and trembling at his side.
"Swear by the honor of your name. You'll protect her no matter what comes." He growled, his voice like an ice wind. Meya tugged his arm, shocked he would dare to command the heir of Hadrian—
"Dad!"
"Swear it, boy!" Dad roared over her protests, so Meya shot Coris a threatening glare instead. It wasn't that she weren't touched by Dad's concern for her, but how could she have Coris bind himself with such a contract, when it was her own selfish decision to take this risk?
Coris didn't glance her way even once. He barely blinked as he bowed his head, declaring fiercely.
"I swear. By the honor of Hadrian. I will protect Meya with my life."
Silence fell as the men locked eyes, age as stubborn as youth was willful. At last, Dad deflated. He nodded, sighing wearily,
"Then may Freda help you, 'cause I ain't gunna be here much longer. Curst lass musta sheared a decade off me life. Prolly two more today."
"Daaaaad!" Meya whined, pummeling the bed as Mum exploded with laughter. Dad ignored them both. He slumped heavily onto the bed, looking dead inside.
"You have our blessing." He grunted. Coris's solemn mask broke into a face-wide grin. Laughing with relief and joy, he swooped down and kissed Meya full on the lips. Dad sighed in annoyance as he averted his eyes, still not used to his daughters growing up, asking matter-of-factly,
"What do you demand as dowry?" Meya froze as she remembered the glaring issue. Coris, however, burst out laughing. He drew back with a smile.
"Father agreed she's paid for a dozen marriages with all the times she saved my life. Please don't worry."
He topped it off with a chuckle. Dad strove to maintain his aloof composure, but couldn't hide the smile of pride twitching underneath his beard. After another kiss, Coris set off to begin his noble obligations (chatting up other nobles and rich folk) for the day, leaving Meya to prepare for her first song to Latakia.
⏳
Night falls over Aynor. All six paved avenues radiating from the palace were clogged by feet, wheels and hooves as the richest and noblest from across Latakia clamored over for a patch of carpet in the grand banquet hall of the Blue Palace.
Unfortunately, Meya wasn't in a state to appreciate the extremes of civilization. Whenever she least expected it, one of her vying humors would surge, drowning her in a wave of dull, pounding heacache.
Colors were stabbing. Lights were blinding. Sounds were deafening. Touches were burning. Smells were suffocating. Movements were dizzying. Even as Mum had dressed her in the roomiest gown made of finest, softest silk, everyone had foregone perfume for the evening, and Coris had reassured Meya she'd have her chance to sing as this was but the first of many feasts, all it did was make Meya more exasperated with her unruly body.
Everyone's advice was to breathe open air, keep her eyes on the horizon. A little hard to follow when they were all crammed in this hull of metal on wheels, jammed at the heart of the thoroughfare alongside a dozen others.
The carriage shimmied to life one final time and rolled past the metal gates onto the fountain courtyard. Circles of golden lights from a hundred windows dotted the palace's silhouette, revealing pale blue stone like clouds streaked with hundreds of golden thunderbolts, trapped mid-strike as the molten marble froze solid. Ten years, and it had almost become the last relic of the Wynn Dynasty.
The cool, crisp night air soothed her nausea, so Meya drew only her eyes back inside. Mum and Dad sat across her, their backs to the palace. Dad seemed frozen in the silken tunic the Hadrians had lent him. Mum rubbed life back into his hands. Beside Meya, Coris had his faced turned towards the window, yearning as far as he dared and stopping just shy of becoming a wide-eyed tyke hanging out with his mouth ajar.
For once, he wasn't watching her with that mischievous smile, raring with answers for her questions, even ones she hadn't thought of. Then she realized—he didn't have any. It was his first time, for the first time since she'd known him. First time in the capital, in the palace. First time meeting the first king from the first dynasty who didn't share an ancient secret with his family. For the first time, he had no right and no choice but to trust his father, who wasn't much more experienced himself. And, for the first time, he was perhaps more afraid than her.
Meya reached for his hand, felt tremors before she touched her palm to it. He turned round and their eyes met. All she had to offer was warmth, so she huddled against him. He sighed and rested his cheek against her hair.
They dismounted before the marble steps. Rows of men bowed them through sets of ornate doors, until at last they entered the banquet hall. Chandeliers of faceted glass winked like crystals of ice far above a long table draped in powder-blue silk, laden with cauldrons of soup and platters of meat red and white, plucked from air, soil and water. Men, women, children of all ages stood talking, laughing, dancing, supping, their flowing, colorful gowns glowing against the pale blue of the surrounding walls.
At the head of the room, three golden throne chairs sat empty beside the lively band of minstrels, awaiting their King, Queen and Prince, so Baron Hadrian directed them to snag a drink from passing servants and follow him to greet familiar faces.
Christopher bowed and left to find his father. So did Frenix, with a great serving of sulking. Arinel, representing Crosset and having no other family to join with, decided to stay with her Zier.
With all the sights, sounds, scents and movement, wee Coris (or Coris-es) threw a tantrum again. Everyone smelled to Meya of the compost mound outside Crosset Castle she must endure every stint down the Trench.
"Lord Hubrus of Clardarth, my Aunt Selane and their son, Harold." Coris whispered into her ear. Meya gritted her teeth behind her pursed lips. It took every ounce of her to swallow the frothing bile every so often and keep her face straight. She wouldn't add three more names to her pounding head.
"Baron Hadrian! Always an honor, my lord!" A tall, suave man in his mid-thirties rushed in for a bow, conjuring his wife who in turn snatched their young son seemingly out of thin air. He surfaced with brown eyes sparkling bright as his teeth and oak-brown as his short, neatly-oiled hair.
"Hubrus!" Baron Kellis threw out his hands and clapped him on both arms. Lady Selane offered the same to Baroness Sylvia,
"Middle sister!" She exclaimed with a wide smile, familiar silvery Noxxian eyes sparkling under her golden-brown hair.
"Baby sister!" Sylvia giggled then rushed forth. As the sisters embraced and kissed cheeks, the Baron turned to the Clardarth heir—a handsome little boy of probably eight, with his mother's hair and his father's eyes.
"Harold, you remember Coris?" the Baron flourished a hand at his son, cocking his head as Coris stepped forth with an affectionate smile, "Pity he was taken ill at the wedding, or you'd have met sooner."
"Was? He still looks ill." Harold pouted up at Coris, eyebrows raised. Meya realized then the dongheaded-ness came from the mother's side of the family and wasn't a Hadrian trait.
"Harold!" cried Selane. Coris's smile widened to reveal yellowed fangs.
"I am getting better." He stretched to full height, staring down his nose at the little devil, "And you're no longer a loaf of wrinkled bread swathed in sodden nappies!"
Harold growled as the adults chortled, stomping his foot.
"Of course, I ain't! Means I'll get the wife soon. And prettier than yours!"
Baron Hadrian blinked, then turned to Hubrus who was still blinking down at his son, "Seems you won't be having trouble getting grandchildren out of this one."
Hubrus rolled his eyes.
"Give it a few years. Once he'd learned what all wives turn into, he wouldn't want to be first to get one."
Selane proved her poor husband's prophecy with a resounding smack on his muscular arm, amid roaring laughter from the Baron. Harold heeded not a word of his father's warning, too busy craning his neck and swiveling on his ankles to see where Coris had stashed his wife.
"Where's the wife, Coris? Where's the wife?"
"Yes, Coris. Bring out the wife." Zier pitched in with a sigh that said and here we go. Coris rubbed his temples.
"You will address her as Lady Meya, not the wife. You have met her, haven't you?" He gestured testily at Meya.
Meya smiled wanly at Harold's look of befuddlement, sweat beading along her hairline. Some of the lords and ladies they greeted earlier had also seen Meya at the wedding, and they raised eyebrows at her glowing eyes, red-gold hair, and her name being not Arinel Crosset (while some ignored the women completely), but they didn't have little kids with them, spouting their gossipy thoughts and asking endless questions.
"This?" Harold staggered back, his face tipping up and down as his eyes swept her from head to toe, toe to head. He jabbed a pudgy finger at her eyes, jumping, "But she's a Greeneye! I met your wife. She's blonde and she ain't a Greeneye and her name is Arinel!"
"She's always been a Meya, a redhead and a Greeneye. She happened to be wearing Lattis and had bleached her hair for she was tired of people pointing them out."
Coris shrugged as anger radiated from him. He wasn't furious at Harold—it wasn't his fault he was as smart and obnoxious as himself. It also wasn't his place to chide his allies and relatives for their prejudice, nor the time to explain the whole convoluted story. There was little he could do but play dumb and avoid confrontation.
"Then you've got to get a new one! Grandfather says if you marry a Greeneye then Chione will speak through her and turn you into her slave!"
"Harold!" Hubrus and Selane wailed in unison. Although their horror was probably for him airing his beliefs, not believing them. Coris pursed his lips petulantly as he took Meya's hand.
"I happen to like this one. I have faith Freda will be moved by our true love to guard us against Chione's intervention." He smiled lovingly at Meya, then flourished a hand towards Mum and Dad,
"Her parents, Mirram Hild and Alanna Clariden."
Coris was expert at steering the conversation as ever. Mum's maiden name snatched attention away from Meya's mystery. Hubrus and Selane gawked at Mum. Slowly, remembrance dawned in their eyes after two decades of slumber.
"Alanna Clariden? Alanna of Noxx?" Selane gasped, glancing between Mum and Coris. Mum stepped forth, hands clasped over her bending knees.
"My lord. My lady."
Lord Clardarth gawked a few blinks more, then his narrowed eyes slid towards Baron Hadrian as he chuckled evilly,
"So, this is your gift, my lord?" Kellis nodded. Hubrus clicked his tongue, shaking his head in admiration. "By Freda, you must not have foreseen the look on Lord Noxx's face."
"Oh, we have, but 'tis not every day I get to upstage dear old Brother, spite miserable old Crosset and help old Kellis win the good King's favor in one masterstroke." Baroness Sylvia flashed him a wink as she coiled her arm around her husband's. Hubrus threw his head back and guffawed. Mum cleared her throat softly then dipped her head,
"Actually, my lord, I have passed my blessing to my daughter. Meya is the new Song."
Lord Clardarth's eyes followed Mum's hand to where it rested on Meya's shoulder, then rose to drink in Meya, with more intent this time.
"You are saying, after two decades, we'll get to witness the debut of the new Song? A Greeneye Song?" It was becoming obvious who Harold had inherited his blabbermouth from. "What will you sing for us tonight, girl?"
He leaned in, bringing with him a waft of flowery perfume. Meya clamped her hands over her mouth as the sour soup of bile and half-digested lunch crashed against her gritted teeth. Hubrus fell back, eyes crossed and brows knotted.
"—The Woodland Throne." Coris answered for her as if he hadn't noticed, but the Clardarths were again transfixed on Meya as if she were a horse-cart somersaulting downhill. Especially as her cheeks ballooned, her eyes watered, and her back caved under the strain of a losing battle. Playing dumb no longer sufficed. They'd soon figure out the truth. Mum cradled her forehead then fished out a vial of salmiac.
"And I warned you about those sea snails! Iced or no, 'tis no longer fresh carted halfway 'cross the country!" She scolded as she waved the bottle at Meya's nostrils. There was a pause, then Lady Selane shook her head, her gray eyes twinkling in amusement.
"Easthaven cuisine—Never fails to be a gamble." She tossed a triumphant smile at her sister, and raised her goblet in salute, "Seems I'll be the one to upstage dear old Brother after all."
Baroness Sylvia simpered and raised her cup in reply, too relieved at the charade's success to have room for a pithy comeback. Mum grasped Meya's arms and hitched her snugly to her side.
"Do excuse us—"
After a hasty bow, she whisked Meya away, picking the widest paths through the milling crowd towards the balcony, shielding Meya from the chaos with her body.
"Head high. Deep breaths, Meya. Almost there. Almost—"
Mum's voice was yet another unwelcome feather's touch in the maelstrom of sensations flinging her about. All she needed was a gentle nudge too sharp, and she would tip over the edge—
She bumped into something solid and yielding, smooth and coarse, hot and ice-cold at the same time. A splash of freezing water down her front startled her so hard, the deluge burst free. Screams and yells and broken glass and clattering metal. Pain arced up her skull then blinked out, and the world settled into clarity around her once more.
As she panted, runny, yellowish sick dripped off her onto the carpet. It had emptied but for Mum's crimson slippers, and a pair of leather boots pure white but for the splatters of vomit.
Meya followed the trail of her sick up the man's white trousers to his charcoal-gray tunic, to find his square-jawed, snowy-skinned face and freefalling white-blond hair. Compared against other noble faces, he must be around Baron Kellis's age. Goblet still held aloft in one hand, his ocean-blue eyes calmly appraised the damage.
"Oh, my lord—my daughter—she isn't feeling well—I'm so sorry—" Stammering, Mum rushed in with her handkerchief, but the man raised his hand to halt her.
"Not at all, not at all." He muttered, distracted. After a deep breath, he surfaced with a slight frown over his gentle smile, "Are you all right, my lady?"
Meya blinked. The man had a familiar air about him, like Coris when they first met, yet slightly different, so slight she couldn't pinpoint where. His eyes were beautiful, serene and piercing. She delved into them and found no bottom for the pit, no treasure nor horror. They were empty.
"Yes, milord. Now that I've spewed? All over you?" Shivering, she added jestingly, as if hoping something would well up in that chilling void in response. Even fury would be more palatable. As Mum spanked her arm with an exasperated cry, the man smiled wider.
"Indeed." He chuckled tenderly, then tilted his head, "Let us go clean ourselves. Allow me to lead the way."
He extended his hand, bowed, then stepped confidently through the gawking, whispering crowd. He stopped a scurrying servant-boy, who pointed them to a water-pump in the gardens, and brought them clean rags.
As the man wiped sick off his tunic and Mum helped Meya with hers, Mum broke the silence,
"My lord—I'm Alanna Clariden. This is my daughter, Meya. We're part of the Hadrian entourage."
"Hadrian?" The man perked up, blinking, then his eyes strayed to the doorway they'd come through. His lips curled into a faint smile, as he brushed the rag absently down his damp shirt, "So, they are here. I certainly must greet them."
He tossed aside the rag and plunged his hands into the bucket. Clattering footsteps drew near. A reed-thin silhouette emerged at the doorway, froze at the sight of Meya, then rushed down the steps with a cry,
"Meya!"
"Coris—"
Coris slammed into her, caring not in the least for the reek and damp.
"I lost you in the crowd. I'm so sorry—" He drew back and dipped his head at Mum, only then noticing the unknown man, "And who is—"
Coris froze, the rest of his question dying in his throat. His eyes widened as blood drained from his cheeks. He stepped up to shield Meya, his back shivering. Yet, all the man did was smile warmly, raising his arms as if to embrace a long-lost heir.
"Coris, my dear boy. It's been so long." He shook his head, his voice parching to a rasp of longing in his throat. Her fear subsiding, Meya slipped out from behind Coris.
"You know Lord Coris, milord?"
The man blinked, taken aback, then laughed affectionately. Swearing under his breath, Coris shoved Meya behind him again, yet the man continued airily as if he hadn't noticed.
"Better than most. His little brother, as well. They once trained under me—the sons I've never had."
Meya began to smile—then stopped. For a heartbeat, relief and joy blossomed in her at the discovery of her husband's kindly mentor, then remembrance crashed in like a freezing wave.
There was a man who had trained Coris and poisoned Zier into a willing pawn for the Axel Heist. The man also sent his daughters to Hadrian as unwitting spies and discarded them when they'd exhausted their use. The man had learned the hiding place of The Axel, brought the knowledge to the King and called a meeting of the Council.
"And this—is Baron Grimthel of Graye," hissed Coris through gritted teeth.
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