Page 10 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“I quite agree,” Albrecht said. “Caution and fairness preserve peace better than haste.”

Lorenthea looked displeased. “An interesting notion,” she said, her light tone at odds with something sharper beneath. “Though rulers cannot always indulge fairness.”

Koraleise tilted her head. “It is the same for merchants as for rulers, I think. Profit, like power, fails when grasped tightly. Fair tolls keep trade alive, and trade, after all, sustains every hand—from river to court.”

“A rare understanding,” Albrecht said, admiration in his eyes.

Jeachim set down his cup. “I suppose I should have trusted my father’s judgment.” His smile held a trace of nerves, but pride as well. “He has likely seen every trade route there is.”

“Father has seen it all,” Elysande cut in, seizing the opening. “Did you know he has braved the Shipwreck Sea and the Shifting Sea near Tsuchitsa Isle?”

At the mention of the western fae kingdom, something distant passed through Albrecht’s eyes.

“You have crossed the Shipwreck Sea?” Duncan asked, with genuine respect.

“I once hoped to go farther still. But age caught me sooner than I had planned.”

“I thought myself well-traveled,” Duncan mused, “but you have seen more of the continent than any man I know. If you would oblige us, what stories have stayed with you?”

“Stories?” Albrecht’s eyes softened. “Once, in Elverglend, I met a weaver who claimed she wove glamours into the cloth so no two viewers saw the same color.” A quiet laugh escaped him, quickly swallowed by a cough. “Naturally, I dismissed it—until I brought the bolt home and my steward swore it was blue while I swore it was green.”

“And when you had it made?” Jeachim asked. “What color did you decide it was?”

“I declared it green on even days and blue whenever I had drunk too much wine.” Albrecht lifted his cup in mock toast. “Whether it was illusion or stubbornness, I leave to wiser minds. Either way, it made a fine waistcoat and an even finer story.”

A soft creak drew their attention. An elderly woman slipped inside, her frame nearly swallowed by layers of faded linen and a pale headwrap wound high on her head. Her attire reminded Duncan of the Lumaar, the nomadic theater troupe of the Empire’s western passes whose secret performances had captivated him and his brothers as boys.

“Pardon,” she said. In her gnarled hands she carried a small vial, which she handed to Koraleise with a steadiness that belied her years. “The lady has forgotten her medicine.”

Koraleise’s face brightened—the first true smile Duncan had seen from her. “Thank you, Yaoaya,” she said warmly, drinking the vial’s contents.

Lorenthea drew breath to object, but Albrecht forestalled her with a raised hand. “Thank you, Yaoaya,” he echoed with the same warmth.

The nursemaid inclined her head, murmuring a reply in broken words shaped by what Duncan assumed was a Lumaar accent. With a final nod, she withdrew.

Lorenthea reclaimed the table. “Enough of business,” she declared. “Let us speak of something more diverting.” She clasped her hands. “Jeachim has just returned from Vaelstrom. You spend much of the year there yourself, Your Grace, do you not?”

“Do tell us about Vaelstrom,” Elysande said eagerly. “We can scarcely coax a word from Jeachim, and Father has not been in years. I hear it is magnificent.”

“No other city rivals Vaelstrom in grandeur,” Duncan said.

“Or in noise,” Jeachim added, bleakly.

“Or in noise,” Duncan agreed.

“Where beauty and deceit often share the same street,” Jeachim said with a grimace.

Albrecht waved the remark aside. “In my youth, when it was still called Dobrostrom, it was little more than a fortress and harbor. Now Vaelstrom is a beacon of trade and ambition, where a man can make his name. We have the derVaelclairs to thank for that.”

Duncan nodded. “Wolmer has invested well: new roads, better aqueducts, more schools.”

“And artisans,” Lorenthea added, her hand resting firmly on Elysande’s arm. “He has drawn them with patronage to rival Ardorri masters. I believe my daughter will one day stand among them. Her landscapes were the envy of the Ardorri court this spring.”

Elysande flushed. “You flatter me, Mother. They are only small sketches.”

Duncan knew he ought to acknowledge the comment, yet his attention strayed. “And you, Koraleise,” he asked, “do you paint, or favor another art?”

Koraleise startled. “I—”