“Which is that although the younger brother Drusis is bold, resolute, and never lets himself be distracted by complication of any kind, Duke Saluceris is the opposite, a man who would rather give something to everyone to keep the peace, and who will not stoop to lying for advantage.” Pasevalles gave the king a significant look. “Does that remind you of any two brothers you have known?”

Simon nodded. “Of course. Our own King Elias and Prince Josua.”

“Exactly, Majesty. Now imagine that Josua had been born a year earlier and was raised to the throne, while your wife’s father had been given little of importance to occupy himself and his vaunting ambition. What do you think would have happened then, if Josua had been the older and Elias the younger? That is what is at the root of Nabban’s problems. The brother who most think should have been the duke is not the duke.”

Simon sat back, overwhelmed. “I have not thought of it in this way before, Pasevalles. I thank you. And you think the queen and I should attend this wedding? But I do not want my wife endangered. You make it sound like Nabban is little better than the Thrithings these days.”

“It will take the full prestige of the High Throne and the High Ward, I think, to solve this problem.” Pasevalles stood. “I beg pardon if I have been too forthright in my talk, but you asked to know my thoughts. Matters in Nabban are more delicate than they have been since the Storm King’s War. The High Throne must take the lead, I believe, if only to remind the Nabbanai that they are part of a larger kingdom.” He bowed. “Forgive me for taking so much of your time, Majesty. If you will excuse me, I must get these letters back to the Chancelry so they can be dispatched.”

Pasevalles backed up several paces before turning his back on his king, always the correct courtier even in such an informal situation. After he had gone, Simon could only sit, staring at his royal seal and the stick of wax, wondering whether he and Miri were to spend the rest of their lives trying to prevent fools from harming themselves and others, and never to have a little peace for themselves.

45 A Nighttime Sun

Zhakar sucked the rest of the meat off the haunch, then threw the rabbit bones into the fire where they popped and sizzled as the marrow boiled. Before they got too hot, he plucked them out with calloused fingers and snapped the bones in half, then sucked out the contents. He wiped his forearm against his mouth, leaving a trail of grease through his beard, and made a noise of satisfaction.

“Are you finished with your meal, Stepfather? Or do I interrupt you?”

Zhakar flinched and nearly fell off the bottom step of his new wagon. He had not noticed the tall shadow looming only a short distance away. “By the Piercer, how long have you been standing there? And where have you been? I thought you had left for good, all these days missing.”

“Today I have been to a wedding,” his stepson said. “I did not see you there.”

“Ah! May the gods curse it, is today the day? Drojan’s wedding? No one sent for me.” Zhakar was clearly ill at ease, and still did not look up to meet the younger man’s eye. “Ah, hell’s stripes on them all. How was the food? Was the food good?”

“I left before the feast.”

Something in the younger man’s tone finally made Zhakar look up. “Well, don’t expect to share any food of mine, because it’s all gone.” His eyes narrowed. “What have you been doing? Your clothes are covered in dirt. And is that blood?”

“It could be. I was in a fight.” Unver came forward into the full light of the fire. The sun had all but sunk in the west and the sky was striped with purple and red. “But I do not come here for food, Stepfather. I come here for answers.”

The older man half-rose, putting one hand behind him for balance. “Answers? What do you mean? How dare you strut in after all those days missing and talk to me this way?”

A brief flash of firelight on metal, then the point of Unver’s long knife was against his neck, pushing until Zhakar gasped in pain and terror. “Were you going to go inside your nice new wagon and lock the door against me? Do you really think that would stop me?”

“What are you doing? Have you gone mad? I am your father!”

“No, you are my stepfather, and a poor one at that. Where did this wagon come from, old man? I think Odrig sold it to you. Am I right?”

“Yes! Yes! Why do you act this way? He sold it to me for some horses!”

“But those horses were mine, old man.”

“They were in my paddock! That makes them mine!” Zhakar let out a sudden screech as the knife poked deeper into the wattle of flesh beneath his beard. “What do you want?”

“I told you. Answers.” Unver sank down onto the steps. “Where do I come from?”

“What nonsense is this? I told you!”

“You told me I came from a clan far away across the grasslands.”

“You did!”

“Tell me their name!”

The old man gasped in pain as the blade prodded him. “I do not remember! No, wait! It was one of the clans from the High Thrithings. They sent you to us.”

“You told me my father and mother were both dead. Is that true?”

“Of course—!”

“Think and answer carefully, man. It may be your final act.”

The deadness in Unver’s words seemed to frighten the old man more than the blade. Zhakar’s staring eyes showed a great deal of white. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I misunderstood—it was such a long time ago!” He could not bear to look at Unver’s face. “Your mother might have been . . . might have been alive. Yes, perhaps that was how it went. But your stepmother was so pleased to have you. Yes, that’s it, I remember now, we told you your mother was dead. It was the thane’s orders!”

“Thane Hurvalt would not have ordered such a thing. He was a good man before his wits were taken.”

“It is the truth, I swear it, Sanver!”

“Do not call me that name!” He said it with such violence that the old man broke free and threw himself off the wagon steps and onto his knees. “That was the name my stepmother gave me, not you, Zhakar. After she died, you never spoke it once. You called me ‘Unver’ just like all the others—Nobody.”

“Oh, by the spirits, what do you want? What do you want from me?”

“I want as much truth as you know, old man. How did I come to the Crane Clan? Tell me all you know or I will slit you and bleed you like an old sheep.”

“Do not hurt me. If you do not care for me, think of the others in the clan. If you spill my blood, they will shun you!”

Unver laughed. It was sudden and loud, ragged as an uncleaned wound. “Will they? Do you know what I have done today, old man—stupid, selfish, lying old man? I have gone to a wedding, and I have killed the bridegroom. This here is his blood—at least so I believe.” He plucked at his tattered, stained shirt.

“You killed Drojan?” The old man looked up from his knees, his terror even greater. “By all the gods, what have you done? Odrig will have your head!”

“I think not.” Again, that terrible laugh, softer now but no less raw. “You see, I killed Odrig, too. I turned the wedding into a funeral. And I buried the bride as well—but her death was none of mine.”

Zhakar began to weep. It was clear he believed every word. “Oh, Gods, what will we do? What will I do? You madman, you have destroyed us!”

“There is no us, not since my stepmother died. You made that clear to me time and again, when you made me beg to be fed, when you gave me all the work you did not wish to do yourself, when you mocked me with the name the others had put on me—‘Nobody’. Now, if you do not wish to suffer a slower and more painful death than Thane Odrig, you’ll tell me everything you know about my true clan. And stop your blubbering or I will cut off your lips and you will tell me your secrets with a bloody mouth.”