Page 35 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan felt his turmoil as if it were his own. It was not always malice that set a man down a path. Often it was the absence of choice, a quick decision made in exhaustion, or the slow turning of a current not noticed until too late. The tide of consequence did the rest.

Sometimes it was crueler still: a moment taken by fate, leaving endurance the only option.

Trumpets blared, bringing the day’s contests to a close.

The imposter Pietre tipped his head toward the glow spilling from the feasting hall. “We will be missed soon, Your Grace.” Nostalgia colored his smile. “I’ve yet to find a vintage here that compares to an Ardorri red, but fae wine isn’t so bad if you close your eyes and think of home.”

Duncan studied him.

Duty demanded he expose the deception. Justice might even have agreed. But he had seen too much squandered promise, too many capable men cast aside by circumstance rather than failing of character. This one had raw talent, hard-earned skill, and the resolve to apply it. He had survived where better-born men would have faltered, and borne the weight of another man’s name without buckling beneath it.

No, Duncan would not cast him to the wolves. Even knowing it might cost him if Wolmer learned of it. Perhaps one life might yet bend away from the moment that had altered its course.

“I will do what I can to secure your release,” Duncan said finally. “Oorlon has requested an audience in the afternoon, before the Festival concludes at dusk.”

The young man remained still for a moment, as if struck by disbelief. Then he bowed, gratitude evident in the gesture. His composure slipped, and something else broke through: relief, and a faint, dangerous glimmer of hope.

And Duncan himself could only hope he had made a promise he could keep.

Then, on his way toward Oorlon’s audience chamber the next day, Duncan closed his eyes and thought of home. An ache opened in his chest for Emberglade’s green hills, for the scent of rain on its stone terraces, for soil that did not shift beneath a man’s feet or whisper his secrets after he passed.

He longed for the steady ring of the forges.

For anything familiar and certain.

He checked Albrecht’s iron bracelet, turning it once around his wrist as he recalled the viscount’s warning not to overstay their welcome. Once this audience concluded, Duncan intended to depart quickly, with no desire to witness the Festival’s finale.

Oorlon reclined upon his throne, hair gleaming silver beneath the violet torches—though Duncan now knew to watch for the darker roots beneath the sheen. The wolves sat at his feet once more, menace temporarily masquerading as two sculptures.

Duncan bowed to the degree required, then took the single chair placed at a precise remove from the dais, far enough to remind him of his place.

“You are here for the human emperor,” Oorlon began, evidently having decided to dispense with pleasantries. “So hear my terms plainly.” He rose from the throne and began a slow circle around Duncan’s chair. “I have something of yours,” he went on, “and your empire possesses an abundance of something I do not favor.”

He stopped a few paces in front of Duncan.

“Iron.”

Oorlon let the word hang until even the air seemed to darken around it.

“You wish to trade Pietre’s freedom for iron,” Duncan ventured.

Oorlon shook his head and resumed his prowl. “I wish for the Vaelclair Empire to cease mining it. To close its forges. To leave the earth its bones. Do this, and your baron lives.”

Surprise broke through Duncan’s control before he could contain it. He lifted a brow.

“How fortunate,” Oorlon continued, “that your emperor sent you. I understand that most of the Empire’s iron lies in the Ardennesse. Your lands, Duke.” Oorlon smiled, as one might at a chessboard arranged to their liking. “One command from you, one step closer to our bargain.”

“Your Majesty,” Duncan replied, keeping his tone civil, “if you know where the iron lies, then you know the Empire’s economy rests upon it. An emperor who buries iron buries his own support.”

Oorlon’s eyes brightened.

Duncan felt a faint brush of frost against his thoughts. Probing. Testing. It lasted only a moment before retreating. He blinked, then instinctively adjusted his sleeve to hide the band.

Oorlon caught the movement and scowled. “Your consequences are not my concern. I am telling you what I require, and the Empire has until winter returns to comply. Otherwise, you will not see your Lord Pietre again.”

Duncan clenched his hands. He had intended to negotiate the man’s release, but this was impossible. Wolmer would never agree. “There are other exchanges that might demonstrate our goodwill,” he pressed. “Let me bring forward something your kingdom would value more.”

Oorlon completed his circuit and returned to the throne. “There is nothing you can offer.”