The Bastard King

CHAPTER ONE

This tale begins a little less than nine months before King Lanius was born. That was when Certhia, King Mergus’ concubine, went to Mergus and told him she thought she was with child.

Mergus, by then, had been King of Avornis for almost thirty years. He was a big, rawboned man with a long white beard and a scar on his cheek above it that proved he’d been a warrior in his younger days. His eyes were a dusty, faded blue—a hopeless blue, you might say, for he had no sons.

Waiting to succeed him was his younger brother, Prince Scolopax. Mergus hated Scolopax. The hatred was mutual. Scolopax waited… impatiently.

Hearing Certhia’s news, Mergus put his big, knobby-knuckled hands on the concubine’s soft shoulders and rumbled, “Are you sure?” The rumble ended in a harsh, wheezing cough—several harsh, wheezing coughs, in fact. Mergus had been coughing more and more the past couple of years. Prince Scolopax might not have to be impatient too much longer.

On the other hand, after this, he might.

Certhia looked up into the king’s lean, haggard face. Her eyes were blue, too, the deep, striking sapphire blue for which so many women gave so many wizards so much gold. For her, the color was natural. Mergus thought so, anyway.

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” she answered. “In another month, though, I’ll know for certain.”

“If it’s a boy—” Mergus paused to cough again. He had trouble stopping. When he finally did, a tiny fleck of pink-stained spittle rested on his lower lip. He flicked out his tongue and it was gone. He gathered strength. “If it’s a boy, Certhia, I’ll wed you.”

Those sapphire blue eyes widened. “Oh, Your Majesty,” Certhia whispered.

“I mean it,” Mergus declared. “If it’s a boy, he’ll be my heir. To be my heir, he has to be legitimate. For him to be legitimate, you have to be my wife.”

“But—” Certhia said, and then said no more.

But indeed. Commoners in Avornis were allowed three wives, nobles four, and the king six. Even Olor, king of the gods, had no more than six wives. Mergus had long since gone through his allotted half dozen seeking a son. He’d lost one wife in childbirth, one to a fever. One he’d sent away for barrenness. The remaining three had given him five daughters, two of whom still lived.

“I don’t care,” he said now. “I’ll find a way.”

“The priesthood won’t like it,” Certhia predicted.

Mergus scowled. “The priesthood never likes anything,” he said, which wasn’t far wrong, either. “But if I have a son, he will sit on the Diamond Throne after me. If I can’t get a priest to listen to me any other way, I can buy one, or more than one. I can—and I will.”

Certhia cast down those blue, blue eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she murmured. More than anything else, she wanted Mergus to marry her. To be Queen of Avornis… But she was shrewd enough to know that letting him see that would hurt her chances.

Mergus reached out and caressed her breasts through the thin linen of her smock. Instead of stepping forward into his arms, she flinched away. “They’re tender?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t be,” Mergus told her. “You’re pregnant, all right. If it’s a boy…” He had the face of a man who’d forgotten how to dream but suddenly remembers.

Grus commanded a river galley on the Stura, southernmost of the Nine Rivers cutting across the plain that made up the heart—and the breadbasket—of the Kingdom of Avornis. He was almost thirty—he’d been born in the year Mergus took the Diamond Throne. Slightly above middle height, he was lean and dark-eyed, with a thick black beard he trimmed very close. He’d taken a sword cut on one side of his chin a couple of years earlier, and the hair in the scar, when it began to grow again, grew in silver.

Like the rest of the Nine, the Stura flowed east, out from the foothills of the Bantian Mountains toward the Sea of Azania. The Tigerfish fought her way upstream on oar power. An officer with a kettledrum beat out the stroke for the rowers (free men, every one of them, not dead-souled slaves or chained captives who pulled oars for the Banished One).

Grus swigged from a wineskin and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his linen tunic. He kept a wary eye on the southern bank of the Stura. The river belonged to Avornis; the land beyond it to Prince Ulash—and thus to the Banished One. Ulash’s grandfather had once ruled on this side of the Stura, as well; the Prince made no secret of wanting to do the same. But Grus saw only a few thralls laboring in the fields—no signs of trouble.

He turned to his first lieutenant, a leathery veteran named Nicator, and remarked, “The latest truce seems to be holding.”

Nicator’s teeth were startlingly white against his sun-cured hide when he grinned. “Oh, yes—for now. And it’ll keep right on holding for as long as Ulash wants it to, or until the Banished One tells him different. After that? Ha!” He shook his head.

“I know.” Grus went on watching the thralls. They went on working without even looking up at the Tigerfish. In a very real sense, the river galley wasn’t there for them. Grus shivered, though the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky. The thralls’ ancestors had been Avornans. They were… something else, something less. He shivered again, and took another pull at the wine. “Poor buggers.”

“Who? The thralls?” Nicator asked. At Grus’ nod, his lieutenant spat into the Stura. “They don’t know the difference—or care, either.”

“I know,” Grus said again. “That makes it worse, not better.”

Nicator thought it over. “Well, maybe,” he said.

As Grus passed the wineskin to Nicator, the ship’s wizard bustled up to him. “Excuse me, Captain—” he began.

“What is it, Turnix?” Grus broke in.

“Seeing shadows that aren’t there again, Turnix?” Nicator added scornfully.

The tubby little wizard turned red. “I do my best to keep this vessel safe,” he said with dignity.

His “best” had sent sailors scrambling and marines grabbing for their weapons three times in the past two days. He spied danger whether it was there or not. “What is it—what do you think it is—this time?” Grus asked with such patience as he could muster.

“May it please you, sir, it’s danger—great danger,” Turnix quavered.

Grus laughed in his face. “Oh, yes, fool, danger pleases me. But what pleases me about it is that it’ll be no more dangerous than these last three times. For that, I thank Olor and all the other gods.”

“All but one,” Turnix said, and Grus nodded. No Avornan would thank the Banished One. He was less than a god these days for his banishment, but more dangerous to mere men than all the heavenly hierarchy put together. For, being banished from the heavens, he manifested himself on the suffering earth and meddled directly in the affairs of men.

“Well, what is this danger, then?” Grus asked gruffly. “Have Ulash’s men crossed over to the north bank of the river? Have they set some sort of ambush for the Tigerfish? Has he put galleys of his own in the Stura?”

“None of those, sir. Worse than those, sir,” the wizard answered.

The sailors muttered, some in fear, some in derision. Nicator said, “Fling him over the rail and let him swim home, the useless, shivering son of a yellow dog.”

“I know what I know,” Turnix declared.

“I know what you know, too,” Grus said. “Less than you think you know, that’s what you know. And until you know you know less than you think you know, I think you’d better know enough to get out of my sight.”

That wasn’t easy to do on a river galley, which measured only about eighty feet from ram to dragon, forepost to rudder. Turnix did make himself scarce, though, and that served well enough. “Too bad he doesn’t make himself disappear,” Nicator muttered darkly.

As the sun sank behind the Tigerfish, her anchors splashed into the river at bow and stern. Grus ate hard bread and salty sausage with his men, and washed supper down with wine. He made sure the night watch was strong—the Banished One claimed the darkness as his own. After everything seemed as safe as Grus could make it, he lay down on the deck planking, wrapped himself in a thick wool blanket, and fell asleep.

And he discovered that Turnix wasn’t such a bumbler after all. For when Grus fell asleep that night, he dreamt, and when he dreamt, he saw the Banished One face-to-face. He fought to wake up, of course. He fought, and lost, and wished the wizard had been wrong instead of all too right.

“I see you, Grus,” the Banished One said. His voice and his face held the same terrifying, unearthly beauty. He was not a thing of this world. He belonged in the heavens—or he had.

Which would be worse, answering him or not? “I see you,” Grus heard some inner part of him say.

“You will fail. You will fall,” the Banished One told him. Those terrible eyes looked into his soul, and Grus quailed. Men were not meant to be measured so. Vast contempt blazed forth from the Banished One. “And even if you think you triumph, you fail regardless.” He laughed. That was harder to bear than the gaze. Grus hadn’t thought anything could be.

“Go away,” his inner voice croaked. His spirit made a sign he would have used in the flesh.

And he was awake, staring up at the innocent, cheerfully twinkling stars. Except for a few mosquitoes buzzing overhead, everything was calm and peaceful as could be. The sailors on watch strode along the deck, bows in their hands, swords on their belts. But sweat soaked Grus, and he smelled the sour reek of his own fear.

He looked around for Turnix. The wizard lay snoring, not ten feet away. Grus silently begged his pardon. Facing the Banished One was a more deadly danger than any on the river. This time, Turnix had known more than even he’d thought he’d known.

“Come on,” Mergus said testily as he led Certhia down a seldom used corridor somewhere in the bowels of the royal palace. Torches burned fitfully in sconces on the wall. The air had a dead, unbreathed feel to it. The king was impatient. “Do you know how hard this was to arrange?”

Certhia was getting impatient, too. “You’re the king. You can do whatever you want.”

Mergus laughed. “That only proves you’ve never been a king.” His laughter and his words echoed oddly from the rough-hewn stone. The stone might have been unused to having sounds bounce off it.

His guards waited at the top of the stairway. They were probably sniggering and poking one another in the ribs with their elbows. They thought he’d brought his concubine down here so he could make love to her in this strange, uncomfortable, but private place. Mergus had let them think so. Mergus the proud, Mergus the arrogant, submitted to embarrassment—even courted embarrassment—without a murmur, without a whimper.

Certhia giggled. Mergus hadn’t told her why he’d brought her down here, either. She drew her own conclusions. Mergus looked around. He wouldn’t have chosen this for a trysting ground, but…

The witch appeared in the corridor in front of him and Certhia. One instant, she wasn’t there; the next, she was. Certhia squeaked in surprise. The witch ignored her and dropped King Mergus a curtsy. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” Mergus had summoned someone, at any rate. The witch was younger than he, older than Certhia, her brown hair lightly streaked with gray. She had a broken nose that somehow made her look interesting, not homely. By her plain linen smock and long black wool skirt, she wasn’t rich. By the silver rings in her ears and on one finger, she wasn’t poor, either. Mergus asked, “What do I call you?”

“Rissa will do,” she answered. “It may be my name, it may not. But it will do.”

His answering nod was quick and harsh. “All right, Rissa. You know what I want of you?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?” Without more ado, Rissa turned to the king’s concubine. “Take off your smock, dear. I need to feel of you.”

Certhia squeaked again, this time in outrage. “What?”

“Do it,” the king said, the iron clang of command in his voice no less than if he’d been ordering soldiers into battle against the Thervings.

She bridled. She was no soldier, and the iron clang of command only put her back up. “What for?” she demanded.

Mergus visibly started to say Because I told you to. A moment later, he visibly thought better of it. “Because I’m going to find out if you’re carrying a boy,” he replied after that tiny pause.

“Any court wizard could tell you,” Certhia said.

“No court wizard could keep his mouth shut afterward,” the king said. “Rissa here will. Rissa here had better, anyhow. Now come on. We haven’t got all day down in this miserable hole.”

Certhia started to argue more. Then she thought better of it. With a sigh that said she was still unhappy—and that she expected King Mergus to know it—she pulled her smock off over her head.

A heavy gold chain supporting an amulet hung in the shadowed valley between her breasts. They were larger and sagged a bit more than they had before she conceived.

Rissa paid no attention. She set her hands lower, on Certhia’s belly. The king’s concubine hadn’t shown her pregnancy for long. Clothed, she hardly showed it even now. But the witch nodded as soon as she touched Certhia’s flesh. “Yes,” she breathed.

“Yes, what?” King Mergus’ voice was hard and urgent.

“Yes, it will be a boy,” Rissa answered matter-of-factly. Then, the palms of her hands still on Certhia, she stiffened. When she spoke again, she sounded nothing like herself. “I hate him. I shall punish him. Though he have a son, let him be impotent. Let his hope die before him. Let all laugh at what he has become. As I have ordained, so let it be.” The brass of a slightly sour trumpet rang in her words.

Certhia gasped in terror. “That is the Banished One, cursing your son!” Her hand flashed to the amulet she wore. In danger, she forgot she was naked from the waist up. “King Olor, protect him! Queen Quelea, protect me!”

Mergus’ fingers twisted in a protective gesture every Avornan learned by the age of three. He murmured prayers, too. After his heart’s first frightened lurch steadied, he also murmured defiance. “He’ll not have him!” Now his hands folded into fists. “He’ll not!” He’d been without an heir of his flesh too long. He would have defied worse than the Banished One to keep that heir… he would have, were there worse than the Banished One.

Rissa’s hands fell away from Certhia. The witch blinked a couple of times, as though coming back to herself. She did not seem to remember what she’d said—what had been said through her—or Certhia and Mergus’ replies. Only when she saw their faces did she ask, “Is something wrong?”

Words tumbled from the king and his concubine. The witch stared from one of them to the other, horror filling her face. Her fingers writhed in the same gesture as Mergus had used.

“I am unclean,” she gasped when she could speak at all. “I am violated!” She pressed both hands against her crotch, as though the Banished One had used her body, not her mind. A moment later, Certhia put on her smock again. But she let the amulet hang outside the crimson silk now, where she could quickly seize it at need.

Mergus asked, “Can the taint be taken away?”

“I know not,” the witch told him. “I shall speak to those set over me.” The king’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. It was no ceremonial weapon, but a blade that had seen much use in war. Rissa’s eyes followed the motion. She nodded. “If you doubt I will abide by their verdict, Your Majesty, strike now.”

A couple of inches of the blade came out of the jeweled scabbard. But then Mergus shook his head. “No. I believe you. You will do what needs doing. Can you go to them by the way you came here?”

Rissa nodded again. “I can. I will. And I will say one last thing to you, if you give me leave.”

“Go on.” King Mergus’ voice was rough as sandstone.

“Hear me, then: If the Banished One hates your son, if he curses your son, surely he also fears him.”

Back and forth along the Stura, from the last cataract in the foothills of the mountains to the Sea of Azania and then upstream once more. This was the life the Tigerfish and the rest of the Avornan river galleys led when on patrol.

Grus had duly written up his dream of the Banished One and submitted it as part of his report to his superiors. For a while, he wondered if he would be summoned to the city of Avornis and questioned further. When no summons came, he began to wonder if it had been only a meaningless dream.

But part of him knew better.

Not many men, even aboard the Tigerfish, knew what had chanced that night. Grus had never been one to make much of himself or of what happened to him. He had told Turnix, though; he wanted the strongest protective amulets the wizard could make. And he’d told Nicator. If anything happened to him, his lieutenant needed to know why it might have happened.

They were drinking in a riverside tavern one day—on the north bank of the Stura, of course; the south was not for the likes of them—when Nicator asked, “You never heard a word about that, did you?”

Grus shook his head. “Sometimes you wonder if anybody back in the city of Avornis remembers how to read.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if nobody did,” Nicator agreed. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bloody bit.” He slammed his fist down on the tabletop for emphasis. He’d taken a lot of wine on board.

So had Grus, come to that. He said, “What do they care about the border? The king’s going to have a baby—or maybe he’s had it by now. That’s important, if you live in the capital.”

“I didn’t know the king could have a baby. They must do things different in the big city,” Nicator said. They both laughed, which proved they were drunk. He went on, “I don’t care who’s king. Our job stays the same any which way.”

“Of course it does,” Grus said. “We take care of what’s real so they can worry about shadows back there.”

Next morning, when the Tigerfish raised sail and glided on down toward the sea, his own headache seemed the realest thing in the world. He sipped at the rough red wine the river galley carried, trying to ease his pain. Nicator also looked wan. Grus tried to remember what they’d been talking about in the tavern. They’d been complaining about the way the world worked; he knew that much. But what else would you do in a tavern?

Turnix came up to him. Sweat poured down the wizard’s chubby cheeks. This far south, summer was a special torment for a round man. “A quiet cruise we’ve had,” Turnix remarked.

“Yes.” Grus wished the wizard would keep quiet.

No such luck. Turnix went on, “Somehow, I don’t think it’ll stay that way.” His eyes were on the southern shore; the shore that didn’t belong to Avornis, the shore the Banished One claimed for his own.

“No,” Grus said. Maybe, if he kept answering in monosyllables, Turnix would take the hint and go away.

But Turnix had never been good at taking hints. He said, “Something’s stirring.”

That got Grus’ attention, however much he wished it wouldn’t have. Like a miser coughing up a copper penny, he spent yet another syllable. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” the fat little wizard admitted. “I wish I did. So much that’s closed to me would be open if only I were a little more than I am.” He sighed and looked very sad. “Such is life.”

Grus didn’t answer that at all. He stood there letting the breeze blow through him. And then, of course, he too looked to the south.

Oh, trouble might come from any direction. He knew that. The Thervings dreamt of putting a king of their own in the city of Avornis. They always had. They always would. Maybe the Banished One worked through them, too. Maybe they would have been nuisances just as great if he’d never been banished. Grus wouldn’t have been surprised.

And off in the north, the Chernagors plotted among themselves and with Avornis and against Avornis. Some of them wanted Avornan lands. Some of them wanted their neighbors’ lands. Some of them, from some of the things Grus had heard, plotted for the sake of plotting, plotted for the sport of plotting.

So, yes, trouble might come from anywhere. But the south was the direction to look first. The Banished One was there. The principalities of the Menteshe who followed him were there. And, of course, the Tigerfish was there, too. Just their luck.

“What do you know?” Grus asked Turnix.

“Something’s stirring,” Turnix repeated helplessly.

“If I were foolish enough to put my faith in wizards, you’d teach me not to,” Grus growled. He never could tell what would offend Turnix. That did the job. The wizard strode away, his little bump of a nose in the air.

But however vague he was, he wasn’t wrong today. Trouble found the Tigerfish that very afternoon. It came out of the south, too. Had Grus wanted to, he could have patted himself on the back for expecting that much.

He didn’t. He was too busy worrying.

When trouble came, it didn’t look like much: A lone thrall ran up to the southern bank of the Stura and shouted out to the river galley, crying, “Help me! Save me!” The thrall didn’t look like trouble. He looked like any thrall—or, for that matter, like the Avornan peasant his ancestors had surely been. His hair and beard were long and dirty. He wore a linen shirt and baggy wool breeches and boots that were out at the toes.

No matter how he looked, he was trouble. In lands where the Banished One ruled, most thralls—almost all thralls—forgot Avornis, forgot everything but getting in the crops for their Menteshe masters and for the One who was the master of the Menteshe. When the Kingdom of Avornis pushed back the nomads, her wizards sometimes needed years to lift the magic from everyone in a reconquered district. But every so often, a thrall would come awake and try to escape. Every so often, too, the Banished One would pretend to let a thrall come awake, and would use him for eyes and ears in Avornis. Much harm had come to the kingdom before the Avornans realized that.

“Help me!” the thrall called to the Tigerfish. “Save me!”

Nicator looked at Grus. “What do we do, Captain?”

Grus didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t sure he was right, but he didn’t hesitate. “Lower the sail,” he commanded. “Drop the anchors. Send out the boat. But remember—not a man is to set foot on the southern bank of the river. We aren’t at war, and we don’t want to give the Menteshe an excuse for starting one when we’re not ready.”

“What if the thrall can’t get out to the boat?” Nicator asked. Grus shrugged. He intended to play the game by the rules. Nicator nodded.

“Help me! Save me!” the thrall cried. The boat glided toward him. Peering south past him, Grus spied a cloud of dust that meant horses—horses approaching fast. The Menteshe had realized a thrall was slipping from their power—or they were making a spy seem convincing.

Which? Grus didn’t know. Let me get the fellow aboard my ship, and then I’ll worry about it, he thought.

As the boat drew near him, the thrall waved for the sailors to come closer still. When they wouldn’t, he threw up his hands in what looked like despair. Grus’ suspicions flared. But then, as the horsemen galloped toward the riverbank, the fellow splashed out into the Stura. The sailors hauled him into the boat and rowed back toward the Tigerfish as fast as they could go.

The nomads reined in. Pointing toward the boat, they shouted something in their harsh, guttural language. When the boat didn’t stop, they strung their bows and started shooting. Arrows splashed into the river around it. One slammed home and stood thrilling in the stern. And one struck a rower, who dropped his oar with a howl of pain. Another man took his place.

“That thrall had better be worth it,” Nicator remarked.

“I know,” Grus said. By then, the boat had almost reached the Tigerfish. The arrows of the Menteshe began to fall short. The nomads shook their fists at the river galley and rode away.

Turnix, who was a healer of sorts, bound up the wounded sailor’s arm. It didn’t look too bad. Grus eyed the thrall, who stood on the pitching deck with a lifelong landlubber’s uncertainty and awkwardness. The fellow stared as Grus came up to him. “How do you move so smooth?” he asked.

“I manage,” Grus answered. “What are you?”

“My name is—”

Grus shook his head. “Not Who are you. What are you? Are you a trap for me? Are you a trap for Avornis? If you are, I’ll cut your throat and throw you over the side.”

“I do not understand,” the thrall said. “Something died in me. A deadness died in me. When I came alive”—he tapped his head with a forefinger—“I knew I had to get away. Everyone else in the village was dead like that, even my woman. I had to run. How could I be the only one who heard himself thinking?”

He said the right things. A thrall who somehow came out from under the Banished One’s spells would have sounded the way he did. But so would a spy.

“Turnix!” Grus yelled. The wizard hurried up to him, still scrubbing the wounded sailor’s blood from his hands. Grus pointed to the thrall. “Find out if the Banished One still lurks in his heart.”

“I’ll try, Captain.” Turnix sounded doubtful. “I’ll do my best, but magic is his by nature, mine only by art.”

And you haven’t got enough art, either, Grus thought, but he kept quiet. Turnix pointed at the thrall as though his finger were a weapon. He chanted. He made passes, some sharp, some slow and subtle. He muttered to himself and gnawed his lower lip. At last, he turned to Grus. “As far as I can tell, he is what he claims to be, what he seems to be.”

“As far as you can tell,” Grus repeated. Turnix nodded. Grus sighed. “All right. I hadn’t planned to put in at Anxa, but I will now. They have a strong fortress there, and several strong wizards. I’ll put him in their hands. If they find he’s clean, they’ll make much of him. If they don’t…” He shrugged.

“You think I still have—that—inside me,” the thrall said accusingly.

“You may. Or you may not. For Avornis’ sake, I have to be as sure as I can,” Grus replied. Even letting the fellow see Anxa was a certain small risk. No, Avornis wasn’t at war with the Menteshe, not now—but she was not at peace, either. With the Banished One loose in the world, there was no true peace.

Mergus felt helpless. He’d never had to get used to the feeling, as ordinary men did. But not even the King of Avornis could do anything while his concubine lay groaning in the birthing chamber and he had to wait outside.

How long have I been out here? he wondered, and shook his head. A steward came in with a silver carafe and cup on a golden tray. “Some wine, Your Majesty?”

“Yes!” Mergus exclaimed. The man poured the cup full and handed it to him. As he raised it to his lips, Certhia cried out again. Mergus’ hand jumped. Some of the wine slopped out of the cup and onto the polished marble floor. The king cursed softly. He didn’t want to show how worried he was. Rissa had said Certhia would bear a boy. She hadn’t said that the baby would live—or that his concubine would.

The steward tried on a smile. “Call the spilled wine an offering, Your Majesty.”

“I’d sooner call you an idiot,” Mergus growled. “Get out— but leave that pitcher.” The servant fled.

By the time the birthing-chamber door opened, the king was well on the way to getting drunk. He glowered at the midwife. “Well, Livia?”

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she answered briskly. Her wrinkles and the soft, sagging flesh under her chin said she was almost as old as Mergus, but her hair, piled high in curls, defied time by remaining black, surely with the help of a bottle. “I congratulate you. You have a son. A little on the small side, a little on the scrawny side, but he’ll do.”

“A son,” King Mergus breathed. He’d wanted to say those words ever since he became a man. When he was young, he’d never dreamt he would have to wait so long. When he got older and hope faded, as hope has a way of doing, he’d almost stopped dreaming he would be able to say them at all. That only made them sweeter now.

He looked into the carafe. It was empty. His cup was about half full. He thrust it at Livia. “Here. Drink.”

She would not take it, but shook her head. Those piled curls never stirred. Tapping her foot impatiently, she said, “Won’t you ask after your lady?”

“Oh.” Mergus had never had to get used to feeling embarrassed, either. “How is she?”

“Well enough,” the midwife said. She paused, tasting her words, and seemed to find them good, for she repeated them. “Yes, well enough. She did well, especially for a first birth. If the fever holds off”—her fingers twisted in a protective gesture—“she should do fine.”

Mergus offered her the wine again. This time, she took it. He asked, “Can I see the boy—and Certhia?”

“Go ahead,” Livia told him. “I don’t know how glad she’ll be to see you, but go ahead. Remember, she’s been through a lot. No matter how well things go, it’s never easy for a woman.”

Mergus hardly heard her. He strode past her and into the birthing chamber. The room smelled of sweat and dung and, faintly, of blood—a smell not so far removed from that of the battlefield. Certhia had managed to prop herself up against the back of her couch. She held the newborn baby to her breast. The stab of jealousy Mergus felt at seeing the baby sucking there astonished him.

Certhia managed a wan smile that turned into a yawn. “Here he is, Your Majesty. Ten fingers, ten toes, a prick—a big prick, for such a little thing.”

The king had already seen that for himself. It made him as absurdly proud as he’d been jealous a moment before. “Good,” he said. “Give him to me, will you?”

Awkwardly, Certhia pulled the baby free. His face screwed up. He began to cry. His high, thin wail echoed from the walls of the birthing chamber. Certhia held him out to Mergus.

“A son,” the king murmured. “At last, after all these years, a son.” He held his newborn heir much more easily than Certhia had. He’d never had a son before, no, but he’d had plenty of practice with daughters. Putting the baby up on his shoulder, he patted it on the back.

“That’s too hard. You’ll hurt him,” Certhia said.

“I know what I’m doing,” Mergus told her. And he proved it—a moment later, the baby rewarded him with a surprisingly loud belch. The baby stopped crying then, as though he’d surprised himself.

“We’ll call him—”

“Lanius,” King Mergus broke in. He wanted to say the name before anyone else could, even his concubine. “Prince Lanius. King Lanius, when his time comes.” The prince—the king to come—had, at the moment, an oddly shaped head much too big for his body, and an unfocused stare. Mergus’ daughters had outgrown such things. He knew Lanius would, too.

Livia the midwife stuck her head into the chamber. “There’s a priest here,” she said.

“Good,” Mergus said. “Tell him to come in.” As the man in the green robe did, Certhia squeaked and tried to set her robe to rights. Ignoring that, King Mergus nodded to the priest. “Get with it, Hallow Perdix. I need a proper queen.”