Page 33 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“How is the High Priestess chosen?” Koraleise asked.

“She isn’t,” the young man said. “She is born. Sons conceived through the rite compete to become the next king. Daughters replace their mother when they come of age. No one living remembers it ever being different.”

Below, the fighters separated. Wind bent a strike aside that should have landed. Ice scattered, hissing. Duncan glanced sideways and saw his wife’s fingers tighten on the stone. “All fae kingdoms follow this custom?” she asked. “These trials?”

“Each in their own season,” the imposter Pietre replied, lifting one shoulder with a casualness that failed to disguise the cynicism behind it. “Each in their own way.”

Duncan pictured a female kept apart, preserved in reverence while her bed was wagered like a throw of dice, all in the name of tradition. It did not sit right in his stomach.

“Oh,” Koraleise breathed. “It must be exhausting. To bear a child every year.”

The man stilled. “Not as often as you think. Fae pregnancies are rare. Dangerous. Many do not carry to term. Some are fatal to the mother, for pregnancy drains them nearly to ruin.”

That caught Duncan’s attention. Lives that stretched for centuries, bodies nearly impervious. This, then, was the cost. He thought of Wolmer’s five children, Duskmere’s eight daughters. Humans, by contrast, bore no such scarcity where fertility was concerned.

Unbidden, his mind turned to the matter of his own heir. Wolmer would press him soon enough—an assurance of the derWhitte legacy. His throat tightened. On reflection, he amended his earlier judgment of the fae fixation on blood and power. In the end, they pursued the same thing humans killed for: continuation. Albrecht’s observation, that the fae were not so unlike men, returned to him with brutal clarity.

Koraleise tilted her head again, less shaken now than thoughtful. “It explains why they surround procreation with ceremony.” She hesitated. “Has Astriyed ever…”

“No.” The imposter looked up toward Selvarath, his expression weary. “She has served over seventy years and has never borne a child. I’ve heard the Tsuchitsan High Priestess carried one to term recently, though the infant died at birth.” He exhaled. “Aurumierra has fared better. Amerieth is a warmer moon. Perhaps Ameriel is a kinder goddess.”

The atmosphere in the amphitheater shifted sharply. Two males, hair so pale it was nearly white, stepped into the pit, identical as reflections. Duncan straightened at once, instinct drawing him into alertness. Isander, settled a few paces behind them, stiffened too.

“Who are they?” Duncan asked, finding the question mattered more than his stubborn silence.

“Queen Sifia’s twin brothers,” the false baron replied. He tipped his chin toward one. “Gorien.” Then to the other, whose every motion carried defiance. “Thalien.” His gaze lingered between them. “Along with Finnleif and Maren, they are the usual final contenders.”

“Twins?” Koraleise asked immediately. “I thought carrying even one child was rare.”

“It is,” the man said. “Twins are taken as an omen, that the queen’s bloodline is the strongest. That one of her brothers is the rightful king. Oorlon allows them to live”—an uneasy pause, as though the statement extended to himself as well—“but he watches them closely.”

Wind ignited in the pit. They moved too fast to follow; only the sand betrayed where they had been. Gorien’s strikes came like a relentless tide. Thalien’s like an ice storm breaking inland.

“It must be possible to train magic beyond the power of birth,” Duncan said, the thought striking him. “Otherwise, the same male would win every year. And that would be the king.”

The false baron nodded, seemingly intrigued by Duncan’s engagement. “A king may and usually does compete, provided he is the true king and is not too close in kinship to the High Priestess.” He shrugged. “The fae do try to multiply their strength, rather than hoard it.”

Then, quieter, “Of course, Oorlon does not compete.”

Duncan’s eyes flickered to him.

“Those copper roots you see?” the man continued. “He dyes his hair silver.” He gave a small, mirthless smile, glancing at Duncan. “Some men earn a title. Others only wear it.”

Gorien landed a blow that thrust his brother to the far end of the pit. In the same breath, he crossed the arena and reappeared with a small dark stone raised in his hand. Thalien rose stiffly, jaw clenched, then conceded defeat with a firm incline of his head. Even in contests of glory played by near-immortals, there was always one who stood and one who knelt.

Duncan suppressed a shudder as his focus slid toward Oorlon’s dais, the imposter’s words about titles echoing alongside the admission woven through them. Whoever he was, leaving it unknown much longer felt dangerous. He had to uncover the truth.

Catching Isander’s eye, Duncan gave a brief nod—an unspoken instruction to remain with the duchess. Then, “Baron,” he said, rising. “Shall we walk?”

Chapter 18

Duncan

“Before we begin renewing our acquaintance—and reminiscing,” the man who was not Pietre cut in, “you should know, Your Grace, the walls here are generous with their ears. The plants exchange gossip. Some rocks owe Oorlon favors he’ll collect at a nod.” Then, almost cheerfully, “I suggest we say nothing of consequence where no one can hear it.”

Duncan inclined his head, conceding the point. The man knew his deception was uncovered and was asking only for the courtesy of careful speech. And there was an earnestness to the warning that gave Duncan reason to allow it.

At least, for now.