Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

And Wonda.

But again Thamos surprised her, the rage leaving him with a sigh as his shoulders slumped. His face was one of defeat as he turned to her. “You realize all Hollow County, and my mother, thinks it’s mine?”

Leesha nodded, weeping. Her legs turned to water, and she stumbled back to the bed, covering her face in a vain attempt to hide her sobbing. She sat there for long moments, wretched and convulsing, but then there was weight on the bed, and Thamos put an arm around her.

Leesha leaned in to him, wondering if it was for the last time. She clutched at his shirt, holding tight and breathing deep, remembering his scent.

“I’m sorry to involve you in this,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to start courting me, or that I would fall in love with you. I was just trying to protect my baby.”

“Protect it from who?” Thamos said. “No one in the Hollow would have harmed the child.”

“The Krasians would cut it from me, if they knew,” Leesha said. “Or worse, wait till it’s born and then take it from me, raising it to believe it’s the heir to the green lands.”

She looked at Thamos. “And your mother might take it hostage, too. Don’t deny it.”

Thamos dropped his eyes, nodding. “She would likely think it best.”

“And you, Thamos?” Leesha asked. She was pressing too soon, but she had to know. “A moment ago you could not go on without me. Would you see me imprisoned at court with your mother?”

Thamos slumped. “What am I to do? Rhinebeck still has no son. My mother thinks you may be carrying the next heir to the ivy throne in your womb. How am I supposed to tell her it’s the demon of the desert’s heir instead?”

“I don’t know,” Leesha said. “There’s no need to decide now. There’s been no formal announcement of my condition. Let’s just act normally and try to figure things out.” She squeezed Thamos’ hand, and when he did not pull away she leaned in for one last kiss.

Thamos jumped to his feet as if stung by a bee. “Don’t. Not now. Maybe not ever again.”

He took a step back, waving his hand at the hidden door. “I think you should go.”

Leesha sobbed as she slipped through the exit, running from the manse as quickly as she could without stumbling.

The Angierian heraldic coach looked out of place in the Hollow, but Rojer would have known it anywhere. He and Arrick had ridden in it countless times back when his master was still in Rhinebeck’s favor.

Only now it belonged to Jasin Goldentone.

Rojer’s bow skidded off the strings as the coach pulled up in the Corelings’ Graveyard, escorted by a dozen Wooden Soldiers on sleek Angierian coursers. The other Jongleurs and apprentices, following his lead in the bandshell, ceased their playing as well, following his gaze.

Kendall caught his eye. “Everything all right? You look white as a cloud.”

Rojer barely heard her. His head swam with a mix of panic and fear, remembering the screams and laughter of a bloody night not so long ago. He watched, transfixed, as the footman lowered the steps and moved to open the carriage door.

Hary Roller put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, lad. Now, before you’re seen. I’ll give your regrets.”

The words, and the gentle shove the old Jongleur gave served to snap Rojer out of his daze. Hary took up his fiddle and stepped up to lead the orchestra, drawing the attention of the players away as Rojer slipped away.

Exiting stage right, Rojer picked up speed the moment he was out of sight, bounding the steps three at a time and then out the door, darting around the back of the bandshell quick as a hare. He pressed his back to the wall in the shadow of the shell, watching as Goldentone stepped out of the coach.

The last year had done little to dull Rojer’s feelings at the sight of the man who had murdered Master Jaycob and left Rojer for dead in the streets of Angiers at night. In the safety of the shadows, Rojer’s lip curled and his hand itched to flick and draw down one of the knives he kept strapped to his forearms. One good throw …

And what? he asked himself. You get hung for murdering the duke’s herald?

But Rojer’s muscles would not unclench. He was breathing hard just standing still, his body filling itself with oxygen to fight or flee.

Jasin called to Hary, and the old Jongleur moved down the steps at the front of the stage to greet him. The men shared a hug and a slap on the back, and the knives seemed to fall into Rojer’s hands of their own accord.

There was no sign of his apprentices, Abrum and Sali. Abrum who had broken Rojer’s fiddle and held him down. Sali, who had laughed as she beat Master Jaycob to death.

But the apprentices were just tools. It was Jasin who had ordered it. Jasin who stood to pay the most for the crime.

“Rojer, what in the Core are you doing?” Kendall’s harsh whisper at his back made him jump. How had she managed to sneak up on him?

“Mind your own instrument, Kendall,” Rojer said. “Doesn’t concern you.”

“Core it doesn’t,” Kendall said, “if I’m to be your wife.”

Rojer looked at her, and something in his eyes made her draw a sharp breath. “For now,” he said quietly, “all you need to know is that if a demon were about to eat Jasin Goldentone, and all I had to do to save him was play a little ditty, I’d smash my fiddle to a thousand pieces first.”

“Who is Jasin Goldentone?” Amanvah demanded the moment Rojer walked into their chambers. She was in her colored silks, her bare face beautiful even in her anger.

He’d expected it, but is was quick even so. Kendall and his wives had become thick as thieves in the last few weeks.

“Jasin Goldentone is my ripping business and no one else’s,” he snapped.

“Demon’s shit.” Amanvah spat on the floor, surprising Rojer with her vehemence. “We are your jiwah. Your enemies are ours as well.”

Rojer crossed his arms. “Why not ask your dice, if you want to know so much?”

Amanvah gave a tight smile. “Ah, husband. You know I already have. I am offering you this chance to tell me with your own words.”

Rojer gave her a neutral look, considering. No doubt she had indeed cast the dice on the question, but what the alagai hora told her was something else entirely. She might have the whole story—more even than he did—or she might have only a few vague hints with which to pry the information from his lips.

“If you cast the dice, you know all Everam wishes you to,” he countered, knowing it was dangerous ground.

To his surprise, Amanvah’s smile loosened a bit. “You are learning, husband.”

Rojer gave a short bow. “I’ve had excellent teachers.”

“You must learn to trust your jiwah, husband,” Amanvah said, putting a hand on his arm and drawing close. Rojer knew it was a calculated move, just like her anger, but he could not deny its effectiveness.

“I’m just …” Rojer swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“The hora say there is blood between you,” Amanvah said. “Blood that can only be washed away with blood.”

“You don’t understand—” Rojer began.

Amanvah cut him off with a laugh. “I am the daughter of Ahmann Jardir! You think I do not understand blood feud? It is you who do not understand, husband. You must kill this man. You must do it now, before he has a chance to strike at you and yours again.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Rojer said. “Not here. Not now.”