Page 5 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Guards stepped in from the hall, and a wail broke from Lyssara as the child was torn from her arms. The boy’s unforgettable eyes darted around the room, then filled with tears.

Isander’s fist tightened on his sword hilt until his hand ached. It was no surprise that Wolmer deferred to Firrigan’s counsel. Predictability did nothing to dull the bitterness.

“Send in the next petitioner,” Gleister urged the herald, discomfort edging his voice.

Moments later, a portly, sweating Kryovarri merchant burst through the door. “Your Majesty, Your Grace, once again I am robbed by Merrick’s men. His Ashfell Quiett grows bold. They loot my caravans and pillage my warehouses throughout Lemierre. They claim to steal only from the rich, but it will not end there.” Heat crept into his face. “These men are dangerous!”

Isander stood a fraction straighter.

Duncan’s chair scraped.

Wolmer only sighed, fingers rubbing at his temples. “I hear of these men more often in Kryovarre than in Lemierre. Their reach is broader than I believed.” His eyes hardened as they turned to Duncan. “Lemierre, these happenings are on your lands. What say you about this merry band of bandits?”

Isander held his breath as Duncan cleared his throat. “My informants tell me the Ashfell Quiett still operates out of Kalgorod. When isolated incidents occur in Lemierre, we address them and compensate those affected.” He turned toward the merchant, discomfort evident even if Wolmer failed to notice. “Write to my steward, and we shall see it handled.”

“Good,” Wolmer said. “As for their base in Kalgorod, Kryovarre must answer for such neglect. Gleister, send word to Valdir derDobroiov. I will remind him of his duty as a duke.”

Isander thought he saw Firrigan’s mouth draw into a narrow line of irritation, but the reaction vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“And Gleister.” Wolmer set down his quill. “We will take a break. Hold the petitioners.”

Once the study held only familiar company, Wolmer dragged his hands down his face and let them fall to the arms of his chair. He regarded Duncan for a long moment.

“You’ve carried yourself well this season,” the emperor said. “I know it cannot have been easy.” As if speaking to himself, he added, “I miss your father. We built this empire together.” His mouth twitched in search of a smile but did not quite manage one. “Alaric argued with me often, and I am poorer for the lack. In these trying days, I find myself wishing for his counsel.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” the Moonwarden said smoothly. For all his faults, Firrigan’s loyalty to Wolmer remained unquestionable. “You are doing a fine job.”

Wolmer waved a dismissive hand before turning back to Duncan. “You remind me of him.” Then, after a pause, “Your father understood the moons can be as cruel as they are generous. That is why he raised you derWhitte boys the way he did.”

Only then did Isander understand why Alaric had defied tradition. He had shaped his sons for catastrophe—and catastrophe had come.

In the Empire’s order, noble sons were bound by birth: the first to inheritance, the second to religion, the third to the sword. Yet the late Duke refused to let his sons be shaped by a single calling without understanding the whole. They were taught statecraft beside scripture and history beside swordplay, so when Duncan was forced to assume the mantle of Lemierre, however unwilling he may have been, he was exceptionally prepared.

“It brings me comfort to hear him spoken of so fondly.” Duncan’s eyes softened.

Firrigan shifted, as if the scent of grief made him uncomfortable. “Old Lemierre had his virtues.” Then, more sharply, “But we cannot govern by memory.”

Wolmer straightened. “No,” he said. “We govern by knowing what stands before us.” His gaze hardened. “I hear what my court whispers. They say I overreach, that my reforms threaten their power. But has the Empire ever been this strong, this prosperous? Everything I do, I do for my people.” More softly, he added, “Empires fall because the systems meant to protect them begin serving themselves instead. I aim to prevent that.”

Duncan nodded. “I doubt any man would argue otherwise. Still, word of your intent to centralize judicial governance has unsettled many, from the baronies to the marquisates.”

“And the duchies?” Wolmer asked, one greying brow arched. “Kryovarre’s opposition is no secret. Ardor and Duskmere are harder to gauge.”

“Lemierre stands with you,” Duncan said without hesitation, knowing what his father would have said. “That is certain. Ardor keeps to the margins by instinct; I doubt even Cassian’s own court knows his position. Duskmere, however, may be drawn toward your cause by the coming marriage between Prince Rotger and Violleta.”

“Bah.” A breath escaped Wolmer, nearly a sigh. “Cassian is a mute and a bore.” His fingers drifted to a letter on his desk, brushing against the violet seal. “Provided Duskmere conducts himself reasonably in the dowry negotiations, Rotger and Violleta will wed before the first frosts. If conviction cannot bind Ernst derStrom to the Empire, perhaps a contract will.”

“Of course,” Duncan replied.

But Isander heard what went unspoken. The Duke of Duskmere had several daughters already married across the Empire, alliances placed with care. Where Ernst’s true loyalties lay was impossible to know—only that he had arranged his house to stand with the victor.

“Never mind all that,” Wolmer said. He dropped his gaze to the letter beneath his palm. “I will not enact the policy for some time yet, and there will be time enough to dissect loyalties later. Let us now speak of the true reason I have delayed you here, Lemierre.”

Chapter 3

Isander

“Two years ago, along the western border of Duskmere,” Wolmer said, lifting his chin toward a map on the wall. “Netherfen Hallows. Do you recall a skirmish?”