‘Can’t explain it,’ she sighed. ‘But I have this frequent feeling that someone is watching me—you know—hiding and eavesdropping.’
He gave her a soft smile. ‘He’s probably in love with you but you’re so unapproachable he doesn’t know how to talk to you.’
‘Oh really? And you’d know how that feels, would you?’
Reg grinned sadly and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll bring more than an orange.’
‘It’s a date. Bring chocolate,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Bye,’ he replied softly and Corbel de Vis of Penraven lifted his hand in farewell to the gifted young intern who had no idea that she was royalty—a princess in exile—or that her healing skills were based on magic she brought with her from another plane, certainly another age…or perhaps most importantly of all, that she was the woman he loved.
The man had been staring out of the window, watching the trees for movement but he turned at the knock. ‘Come,’ he called and waited while his private aide entered, balancing a tray. He frowned. ‘You didn’t have to—’
‘I know, my lord,’ the aide replied. ‘But have a cup anyway.’
He sighed. ‘There’s still no sign of my raven,’ he added in a grumpy tone.
‘He’ll return,’ the aide replied evenly. ‘He always does.’ He set the tray down. ‘He’s obviously very familiar with the region now, and feels comfortable to be away that long. It’s blossomtide, emperor. I imagine all birds are busy at their business.’
Loethar nodded gloomily. ‘How is it down there, Freath?’
‘Exactly as you’d imagine. Very lively—the leading families do enjoy this get-together and try hard to balance its political agenda with the equally important social binding. Even though this is the empire’s third “Gathering” there’s still that lingering tension. The Droste family is being snubbed as usual, but they’re only marginally less happy than Cremond.’
Loethar lifted a brow in a wry expression. ‘Well, at least they’re all equal now. There are no royals, other than myself. Ah, there’s that smile, Freath. What does it mean today?’
Freath bowed his head once in acknowledgement. ‘Apologies, my lord. But nothing has truly changed for the Denovian people. There may be no royal lines acknowledged as such but the new compasses, as you’ve denoted them, are still paying homage to Penraven.’
Loethar nodded. ‘They’ve forgiven me, don’t you think, Freath?’
‘No, Emperor Loethar, I don’t,’ Freath said gently. ‘Not even a decade can fully heal their perceptions of the wrongs. But I hasten to assure that you’ve certainly gone a long way towards leaving only scars, not open, festering wounds. You’ve been a generous benefactor to all the leading families, who still enjoy plenty of privilege and status—they can hardly complain.’
‘Indeed. I’ve not interfered too much either in the running of their compasses.’
‘And that’s another reason why they appear so tolerant and will increasingly trust you, my lord. A new dynasty is about to begin and enough of them dread a second war so much that they will support your child with loyalty.’
Loethar smiled grimly. ‘I can’t wait for my son to be born.’ Then he sighed. ‘And how is the empress?’
‘Grumbly, sir, for want of a better word.’
‘Gown not right, hair not right, belly too big, drinks too sour, food too bitter?’
‘Husband too distant,’ Freath added.
Loethar’s eyes flashed up to regard his aide’s. It even baffled him at times how he permitted this dour man such familiarity. Even now he didn’t fully trust the former aide to the previous royal family, but he believed Freath was the most intelligent of all the people that lurked around him on a daily basis. He appreciated the man’s insight, dry wit, directness and agile mind. When he compared that to his brute of a half-brother, who was his Second, there was little wonder—for him anyway—as to why he not only permitted but quietly protected Freath’s position. ‘Should I be worried?’ he asked, glibly, yet privately eager to hear the man’s opinion.
‘No, my lord. But if you want your household life to be less volatile it might pay to give the empress more attention. She is, after all, with child and feeling vulnerable.’
‘How do you know, Freath?’ Loethar sighed and took the goblet that his aide offered him.
‘I spent years around a pregnant queen, my lord. Iselda lost quite a few babies but I know during her confinements she was generally irritable. She was no doubt anxious—and for good reason, having lost so many—but also worried that Brennus would stop finding her attractive.’
Loethar made a brief noise of scorn. ‘I find that very hard to believe. Perhaps if you hadn’t killed her, I could have married her!’
‘I do hope the walls don’t have ears, sir,’ Freath said dryly and Loethar gave him a wry glance, knowing they were both well aware of Valya’s unpredictable tantrums. ‘Brennus was butter around her.’
‘Is that so?’
‘“Besotted” is probably the right word. Few couples achieve such devotion.’
Loethar grunted. Freath’s counsel was no comfort at all. In fact, it served only to alienate him further. Marriage to Valya was a trial. Since the lavish wedding that he’d had to force himself to get through, she had become insatiable for power and wealth, especially the outward trappings of both. He understood why: she was proclaiming to the former Set people that while they had once gossipped and tittered behind her back at the reneging of the Valisar betrothal, now she was empress they were required to pay her homage. And once she delivered Loethar his heir at last, her position was truly sealed.
‘Well, Valya’s had a lot of unhappiness in her life. And not falling pregnant for so long has been a heavy burden for her. But that is changed now. Perhaps our son will bring her enough joy to leave her darkness behind.’
Freath straightened. ‘You told me once that our empress had bravely defied man, beast and nature to find you on the plains but I cannot account for the significant gap of years between Brennus deserting their troth and my lady re-appearing in Penraven a decade ago.’
‘It is of no harm for you to know, I suppose. Valya’s father blamed her for Brennus’s rejection, even though she hadn’t seen her husband-to-be for more than a year. The king sent his only daughter and heir to a convent that nestled within Lo’s Teeth, all but imprisoning her with the nuns. She admitted to me a long time ago that she was sure she turned mad for a while—several years probably. And while time scarred over her wounds, it never quelled her fury.’ He stretched, reached for his glass on the weaven table nearby. ‘She escaped.’ He yawned. ‘And then came looking for the Steppes people. She made it through those mountains alone. Impressive.’
Freath paused, considering this. Loethar waited, sipping his wine. ‘So…’ the aide began, frowning. ‘Was the attack the empress’s idea, my lord? This is old history now—it can’t matter if you share it.’
‘It was no one’s idea in particular,’ Loethar lied. ‘I was a rebellious man, not satisfied with leading the Steppes people and wanting a whole lot more than the scrubby plains and the occasional visit from Set traders who felt they were superior to us. And then along came this striking woman out of nowhere, half-starved and with a rage to suit my own. She gave voice to what I was already thinking.’
‘And history was made, my lord,’ Freath said lightly.