Page 81 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Tell me plainly,” Duncan said. “What was the true reason for the urgency?”

Ernst’s jaw worked. Then he muttered, half to himself, “You are your father’s son.” He pushed to his feet, laughing sharply. “So proper. So certain of your virtue. The perfect duke with his commonborn advisers and his pretty wife, thinking it sets you above the rest of us.” His grin twisted. “Careful. Your father thought his righteousness would see him through unharmed.”

Kora lifted her head. Her thread trembled once before she set it aside.

Duncan’s voice hardened. “If this visit was meant to remind me of your fondness for insults, consider it successful.”

“Enough of this,” Duskmere snapped, waving a hand. “We leave at first light.”

He strode out with his men.

The door shut behind them, yet the strain in the room did not fully lift with their absence. It remained, stretching instead between Duncan’s place at the table and Kora’s chair by the window, heavier than the silence that followed.

Chapter 39

Duncan

Astack of correspondence waited on Duncan’s desk, and it seemed to have multiplied tenfold in the time consumed by Duskmere’s visit. He spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening sifting petitions from his lords, reviewing ledgers Osric had flagged for revision, and drafting messages to the emperor’s chancellor. By the time he set down his quill, Selvarath hung high above the valley, and the absence of Kora pressed fully into his awareness.

As if summoned by the thought, a knock sounded at the door. His spirits lifted, a smile already forming as he imagined her entering with tea and biscuits.

“Enter,” he said, softer than he meant.

Mathilde stepped inside, balancing the tray with both hands.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping into a curtsy. Her eyes stayed shyly lowered, their morning encounter clearly still fresh in her mind. “Nahel thought you might like your sweets anyway, though the duchess did not come for them tonight.”

Duncan stared at the tray. Again, he tried to convince himself there was an easy explanation. To tell himself it was only the disorder of the Duskmere visit that had broken their small habit. Yet even as the thought formed, he knew something was undeniably amiss.

Mathilde cleared her throat.

“Thank you, Mathilde,” he said quietly, gesturing. “You can leave it there.”

Mathilde set it on the indicated side table, porcelain clicking faintly against the wood. “Would you require anything further, Your Grace?” she asked uncertainly.

His thoughts skittered. “Is the duchess well?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She’s in the library with Master Rhalen.”

He paused. Then, more urgently, “Would you ask if the duchess might join me?”

Mathilde dropped into a deep curtsy and all but fled.

Duncan leaned back in his chair, turning the quill between his fingers, rubbing his thumb along the feathered end. Duskmere, the ledgers, the unanswered letters—everything slipped from his thoughts, leaving him alone with the waiting.

Suddenly he stilled, acutely aware of the odd flutter beneath his ribs. He was nervous. Cursed be the silent moons, he was nervous.

It was absurd. He had faced the emperor, council chambers, and armies on raging battlefields with less disturbance than this. Yet waiting for Kora unsettled him in a way he could neither reason through nor will aside.

What if she refused to come? The thought flashed suddenly, unwelcome.

The minutes stretched.

Then a soft knock came.

“Enter,” Duncan said, standing at once, as though greeting one of the two men who outranked him—Emperor Wolmer and Moonfather Gregyor alone.

Kora came in, and his breath caught at the sight again. She wore one of her simple Marrowgate dresses now, raven hair unpinned and falling loose around her shoulders. Firelight drew out the strain of the day even as it deepened the green of her eyes.