Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“Blood feuds can last generations, husband,” Amanvah said. “Fail to kill him, and it may be his grandchildren who revenge themselves upon yours.”

“And killing him will stop that?” Rojer said. “Or will it just make enemies of his children directly?”

“If he has any, it may be best to kill them, as well,” Amanvah said.

“Creator, are you serious?” Rojer was aghast.

“I will send Coliv,” Amanvah said. “He is a Krevakh Watcher and one of the Spears of the Deliverer. He will never be seen, and to all the witnesses, your enemy will simply have fallen from his horse or choked on a pea.”

“No!” Rojer shouted. “No Watchers. No dama’ting poison. No getting involved—any of you. Jasin Goldentone is mine to revenge upon, or not, and if you cannot respect that, then this marriage is ended.”

There was silence then. Silence so deep Rojer could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Part of him wanted to take back the words, just to break the silence, but he couldn’t.

They were true.

Amanvah stared at him for a long time, and he met her mask with his own, daring her to blink.

At last she did, lowering her eyes and bowing deeply. Her words dripped venom. “As you wish, husband. His blood is yours alone.”

She looked up at him. “But know this. Every day you allow this man to live, his actions will weigh against you when you walk the lonely path to be judged.”

Rojer snorted. “I’ll take my chances.”

Amanvah blew a short, angry breath through her nostrils, turning on a heel and gliding to her personal chambers and shutting the door.

Rojer wanted to chase her. To tell her loved her and never wanted their marriage to end, but the strength left him and reality closed from all sides.

Jasin Goldentone was in the Hollow, and Rojer could only avoid him for so long.

The invitation came the next morning, a special afternoon meeting of the count’s inner council to formally greet the duke’s herald.

Rojer crumpled the paper in his fist, but was careful not to leave it where it might be found. Amanvah was still in her private chambers, the air chill around the door.

“I’ve got to see the baron,” Rojer told Sikvah. Immediately she moved to lay out the appropriate clothes.

Even Rojer’s wardrobe had seen Amanvah’s touch. She’d been shocked to find the clothes Rojer brought to Everam’s Bounty were the only ones he owned. Not an hour later, Shamavah’s tailors had been stripping and measuring him.

It was good they were building a manse. At the rate Rojer’s closets were filling, they would need to devote an entire wing to his wardrobe.

Not that he was complaining. Rojer now had motley for every occasion, material fine and colors ranging in brightness depending on the nature of the event. Night, he could go a month without wearing the same thing twice. It reminded him of the early days with Arrick, when he had been the duke’s herald and they lived in the palace. Even now, the lie of those times exposed, they remained the happiest days he could remember.

Rojer had attempted to pick his own clothes at first, but his wives quickly put an end to that. In truth, they had a better sense of such things than he.

The jacket and breeches Sikvah chose for an informal meeting with the baron were printed with an intricate pattern of muted color, like a fine Krasian rug. The loose shirt was flawless white silk. It felt like wearing a cloud.

Beneath the flowing cloth, Rojer’s medallion hung heavy on his chest. A Royal Angierian Medal of Valor on a thick braided chain, the heavy gold molding in relief crossed spears behind a shield emblazoned with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne. Beneath the shield, a banner read:

Arrick Sweetsong

But Rojer wore it in reverse, the medallion’s smooth back etched with four more names:

Kally

Jessum

Geral

Jaycob

The names of those who had had died protecting Rojer. Five names. Five lives, cut short for his. How many was his miserable existence worth?

He pretended to fiddle with his laces for the excuse to touch the medal. For an instant, his fingers brushed the cool metal and a wave of comfort flowed through him, driving away the gripping anxiety. Whatever his brain told him, his heart knew no harm could come to him while he was touching it.

It was a fool’s belief, but Rojer was a fool by trade, so that worked out.

Sikvah pulled his hands away like a mother dressing a toddler, fixing the laces herself. Anxiety clenched him again, and he moved his hand back instinctively. Sikvah delivered a sharp slap to the back of his hand. It stung for a moment, then fell away, numb as she jerked the shirt straight.

Rojer jumped back in surprise. “Sikvah!”

Sikvah’s eyes widened, and she dropped smoothly to her knees, hands on the ground. “I apologize for striking you, honored husband. If you wish to whip me, it is your right …”

Rojer was stunned. “No, I …”

Sikvah bobbed. “Of course. I will inform the dama’ting to issue my penance …”

“No one’s whipping anyone!” Rojer snapped. “What is it with you people? Just forget it and find me another shirt. Something with buttons.”

The moment she turned her back, Rojer’s hand darted to the medallion, clutching as if his life depended on it.

His talisman was one of the few secrets he still held from his wives. They knew the names, his mother and father, their family friend the Messenger, and the two Jongleurs he had apprenticed under. Honored dead.

But the stories behind them, the tales of murder, betrayal, and stupidity, these he kept secret.

Sikvah brought the new shirt, a voluminous affair with heavy lace cravat. It was more ostentatious than the occasion merited, but perfect to put a fog over his chest, that he might easily stroke his medallion without drawing attention.

Had she done it on purpose? When Sikvah left the third button from the top undone, Rojer knew she understood, and his heart ached.

Everyone he had ever loved in his life had died and left him alone, but what if the debt was still not paid in full? Would it be Sikvah to die for him next? Amanvah? Kendall? He couldn’t bear the thought.

He realized he was clutching the medallion in a grip so hard it hurt. How long since he had done that? Months. After the attack at new moon, very little frightened him anymore.

But he was frightened now. Thamos had been cold since Rojer refused to take commission as royal herald of Hollow County. He would not be moved to turn on his brother’s herald over a tale of some murdered street performer.

Worse, Jasin might well have arrived with an arrest warrant, for him or his wives. The daughter and niece of the Krasian leader would be valuable hostages, especially now that the Krasians had invaded Lakton.

An accusation against Jasin now might get Rojer nothing but the Herald’s ire, and Rojer knew well how Jasin Goldentone dealt with ire. He embraced it, stroked it, nourished it.

And then, when you thought he must surely have forgotten, it was knives on a darkened street.

Rojer choked, his next breaths came out in a fit of coughing.

“Husband, are you well?” Sikvah asked. “I will inform the dama’ting …”

“I’m fine!” Rojer pulled away, straightening his cravat. The medallion pulled at him, but he ignored the need, reaching for his fiddle and cloak. “Just need a sip of wine.”

“Water would be best.” Sikvah moved to fill a cup. His jiwah no longer tried to stop him drinking alcohol, but neither did they approve.

“Wine,” Rojer said again. Sikvah bowed and fetched the proper skin. He ignored the cup she offered, taking the skin whole and heading for the door.