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way past servants bearing more wine and food, toward—
    The Harskialdna himself! The boys scrambled to their feet, the musicians paused, the dancers stopped. They could have been invisible now—everyone pushed toward the new arrivals, leaving them alone at the far end of the room. The dark-eyed one who had been hoping for a night with a prince—and the resulting favors—threw down her hand drum and marched off in disgust.
    The Sierlaef’s attention had shifted to the tall, dark-haired man who stood in the middle of a crowd of men, all deferential to him. His host, the Jarl of Jaya-Vayir, was finishing his formal greeting to the Sierlaef’s uncle, the Harskialdna, brother to the king.
    The Sierlaef pushed forward, and the men gave way. He practiced the words soundlessly first, making sure his stuttering tongue would not falter; when he reached his uncle he said, “My father sent you?”
    Anderle-Harskialdna grinned his wolf grin at everyone, and his voice was too loud, too jovial, as he said, “No, no, Aldren. No alarms, I only carry his greetings on my way to the border to inspect the supply lines.”
    His uncle—the man who had raised him—was the only person who called him Aldren. To everyone else he wasn’t even Aldren-Sierlaef, he was “the Sierlaef.”
    The Harskialdna still grinned as his words were whispered outward through the crowd, and they all visibly relaxed. Only the Sierlaef recognized the signs of his uncle’s anger. The old fear swooped through him, followed hard by anger. He’d had time to think, waiting here these long weeks. Think about how, all the years he was growing up, his uncle had never quite told the truth, only what he wanted believed.
    Surely the official Runners would be back by now, with word of Tanrid Algara-Vayir’s death. The problem was they inevitably stopped in the royal city first. If so, that meant his uncle knew. And here he was, instead of the Runners.
    The Sierlaef’s anger cooled into apprehension, then flared again. He knew his uncle would try to interfere with his plan to make his way northwest to Choraed Elgaer, and Tenthen Castle, to claim Joret Dei now that her betrothed, Tanrid Algara-Vayir, was dead. The brat Inda was long gone. There was no one left to marry her to.
    I am the future king. It is an honor for her to be chosen by me, the Sierlaef said inside his head, where there was never any stutter. Aldren-Harvaldar, war king . Maybe soon; his father near seventy!
    The Sierlaef was smiling by the time his uncle had gotten rid of the Jarl, his Randael, their liege men, and Runners of both houses, and they stood alone in the guest chamber set with the best furniture the family had to offer.
    “They’re reading your father’s letter about Tanrid Algara-Vayir right now, so you’d better get out your black sash for the bonfire. Your father ordered bonfires at every Jarl’s house, in honor of the death of a commander appointed directly by the king.” He watched the heir narrowly, and as he’d feared, the Sierlaef showed no surprise.
    “What have you done?” the Harskialdna whispered.
    “I?” the Sierlaef snapped, surly and defensive.
    “You know what I am talking about. I arrived in the royal city after the Runners from Idayago. Brigands killed Tanrid Algara-Vayir? Who’s going to believe that?”
    “In Idayagan dress.”
    The Harskialdna brought his fist down on a hand-carved wingback chair—moved for the first time in two generations to the guest chambers in honor of the royal heir. Not that he’d noticed. He’d grown up with such items all around him.
    “If your father orders an investigation, how many Idayagans will die before the truth comes out and he starts questioning your men? Who won’t be able to hide under kinthus that those brigands were in fact your hires?”
    Fear returned. “R-ruh-rr—”
    “Runners? My men opened all the messages sent to the royal city, but they were not alone in that. Did you forget Sindan? If he figures out