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don’t get cold.”
    She leaned her head against the rock wall and closed her eyes. Her hand throbbed. Alshada, keep us safe. Keep Muriel safe. I trust you, but I’m afraid. I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this. Make me strong.

Chapter Three

    Carved in ebony, the raven rises.
    From justice born, the king returns.
    — Scrolls of Prophecy in the Syrafi Keep, Year of Creation 656

    It’s smaller than I remember, Braedan thought. When Fergus sat in the ancient ebony seat, bestowing favors on his trusted councilors and dispensing justice in the name of kings and queens long dead, the Raven Throne had seemed massive. It frightened Braedan as a child. The great crest of the seat formed a raven in full wing, its beak lifted in a cry to the heavens. The wings seemed to emerge from Fergus’ back, and the open mouth looked like horns on his head. Braedan remembered clutching his mother’s hand and hiding behind her skirts until his father called him forward and showed him the throne was just wood.
    The Raven Throne sat empty now. Fergus the Grand, legendary for his magnanimity, had died cursing his son. Repha Felix wouldn’t tell Braedan his father’s dying words. Braedan stared at the carved throne before him and tried to conjure some emotion. None came.
    He stepped up the dais and traced the carvings of braided vines that wound up the throne. He sat down and closed his eyes. It’s just a chair. It’s just wood. I have as much right as anyone.
    The rhythmic sound of steel on stone announced Ronan Kerry’s arrival. Braedan’s uncle tipped his boots with steel on the toes and heel. He said it gave him an edge in a fight and on horseback. Braedan thought it simple vanity. “Come to see what kind of a chair your money buys?” he asked.
    The clicking stopped. “It suits you, your majesty.”
    Braedan opened his eyes. Ronan had the same bright blue eyes as Braedan, but there the similarities ended. Ronan was a big man, muscular, with the red-blond hair of the people on the northeastern coast of Taura, while Braedan was shorter, lither, and had his father’s coal-black hair. The rising sun of House Kerry was embroidered in gold on Ronan’s indigo longcoat. His uncle’s close-trimmed beard hid a prominent chin, and his ruddy face had the weather-beaten look of a man who lived subject to the harsh elements of the northern coast.
    Braedan saw his mother’s face under Ronan’s wrinkles. “You were here when he died. Did he know? Did he see you?”
    Ronan shifted his feet. “I was here as was my right as councilor, but he refused to see me. He insisted to the end that your cousin Daron would take the regency.”
    “And Daron?”
    “His head decorates the Noble Gate, majesty. As you ordered.”
    As I ordered. “What of my father’s forces in the city?”
    “Taken. There have been few casualties. My men control the streets, and yours took the castle easily.”
    “And the Table?”
    Twelve ducal houses sat on the Table of Councilors. There had once been thirteen, but House Mac Niall fell from favor before Braedan’s exile. Duke Mac Niall was killed and named a traitor to the crown. “Those who were in Torlach are now imprisoned in the west tower in separate rooms, as you ordered,” Ronan said. “I’ve dispatched forces to the other dukes with messages demanding their allegiance under threat of forfeiture of their holdings. I don’t think it will be difficult to convince them. Most of my peers tired of your father’s extravagance and piety years ago.” He paused. “The Mac Corin holdings are yours to dispense. You have many loyal nobles who would love to have some rich southern soil since Daron no longer has a need for it.”
    “Including you, uncle?”
    “If it pleases your majesty.”
    “Daron had no heir?”
    “Daron left a young wife and no children. The lady is from House Seannan. If you want Duke Seannan’s loyalty, return the lady to him.”
    Braedan leaned back on the throne. “You speak of