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(And there were ghosts at Taboresk. Another secret that he and his cousin shared.)
“Nothing is wrong,” Miro said. “Other than our king has died, and we face a war with Veraene.”
So. A blunt reply. But he had asked for one, he knew.
“I’m sorry he is dead,” Ryba answered. “I cannot love him as you did—”
“I never loved him.”
Again, the harsh truth. Ryba wanted to reply with a joke, but he understood his cousin needed more from him. I need more. We all do, all of us in Károví, no matter what we thought of Leos Dzavek.
So. Honesty leavened with kindness.
“I never loved him,” Ryba said. “But I admired him. I admired him for his courage in the face of Erythandra’s might. For his willingness to take back from the empire what belonged to us alone. For how he sacrificed himself to rebuild the kingdom. No, to build it greater than before.”
“He lied to us,” Miro said.
Ryba suppressed a shudder. “So perhaps he did. So did all our kings and queens. What does that make them? Fallible. Just as you and I are fallible.”
He was speaking on impulse, trying to plumb what mood had taken hold of his cousin. Some of it he believed. Some he had just discovered in these past few moments. And some had pursued him through life dreams, like ghosts and nightmares, and whispers of the future.
“Will you ride with us back to Rastov?” he asked.
“No,” Miro said. He shook his head. “That is, not immediately. I need a week or two to settle my affairs here at Taboresk.”
A lie, Ryba thought. An all too obvious one.
Usually Miro was more accomplished with deceit. It came from dealing with court, especially that pair of schemers, Markov and Cernosek. He decided to see how far he could probe.
“What about your cousins? Those girls from Duszranjo?”
“Women,” Miro said. “They are hardly children to be called girls.”
Ryba had made the goad by habit. He had not expected Miro to respond. That he did, and so plainly, was another sign of his cousin’s distraction.
“My apologies,” Ryba said without much conviction.
No answer.
“Only they seemed rather young to travel alone.”
Miro’s mouth thinned, but he said nothing.
“So you do not wish to talk about these lovely young women? I assure you that Skoch does. He was quite surprised to find them here, under your protection, when no one at court had any idea—”
“Ryba. Shut up.”
Ryba grinned, but only to himself.
So you are not impervious, my dear cousin.
He wanted to provoke his cousin more—it was a rare chance that Miro allowed anyone to tweak him—but then Miro covered his face with both hands and sighed. “Ryba. I must provide for them. I promised. I—”
He stopped. Rubbed his knuckles against his eyes.
“Never mind,” Ryba said. “I understand.”
He stood. Glanced around at the offices once more. All neat and contained, and filled with intricate secrets, some of which he knew he would never guess. He was not certain he wished to. “Then I leave you in peace, cousin, at least for the morning. Perhaps I shall imitate your good example and ride into the hills today.”
