Zalier followed his wife into their appointed suite and shut the door. Rosnine was already sitting at the vanity, removing her adornments. He smiled. She'd never been one for needless frippery, his Rosnine. It was just as well they stuck close to their home in the North; neither of them were comfortable with the crowds and displays of court life. He covered her hand where she was fumbling for the pins holding her hair high on her head.

  "Let me," he said. She smiled and acquiesced, lowering her hands to her lap and relaxing into his touch. Rosnine had beautiful hair. It was a light brown this time of year, but it'd be the color of ripened grain soon, after months in the summer sun. He preferred her habit of wearing it in a thick plait or loose in fat waves to the intricate knots favored in Reiont. How could a woman carry so much hair coiled and piled on her head with metal pins and heavy adornments without a constant headache? He chuckled as he began pulling pin after pin from her hair. "Why do you torture yourself?"

  "Politics, dear," she answered. "It’s as much, if not more, about image than it is rhetoric." Zalier watched her face tense and relax as he continued removing pins. She grimaced when one caught in the weave of a plait only to sigh when it came free. "The jewels, gowns, and finery are all just displays of wealth, power, and skill. If I went around in the blue dress you like so much with my hair down, it’d be seen as a sign of poverty. The last thing I want is for Reiont courtiers to get the idea we're bankrupt and only here to curry Aligh's favor in an attempt to secure a loan."

  Zalier removed the last pin and let her hair fall. He ran his fingers through it, unraveling the plaits and massaging her scalp. Rosnine's eyes closed as her whole body relaxed, and she made a happy noise in the back of her throat. He reached for the brush and began smoothing her hair.

  "So you spent all winter embroidering and embellishing gowns for this trip. You put up with what you call 'socially acceptable bondage gear,’” he said with a wave toward her jewels. “And you waste hours having your hair twisted into knots that give you a sore scalp to protect our reputation?"

  "It's silly, but yes," she answered and laughed. "But that's politics, isn't it? A well-crafted illusion with the best actors coming out ahead?" Zalier nodded at her in the mirror. "The only thing that changes from one province to another is the audience's taste. Reiont prefers form to function. Otherwise, I dare say Maya would wear breeches and curls more often than gowns and braids."

  "Do you think?" With one last stroke, he finished brushing his wife's hair and set the brush back on the vanity table. Rosnine turned in her chair to look up at him.

  "Yes, I do," she said. She took his hands in hers and laughed. "I overheard some of the older ladies talking today. You know she was missing all morning before she turned up with Chantal out of nowhere? Everyone knows she's a village child. That's no strange thing, but she's never quite given up the desire to be in wild spaces. She and her Yekaran go out to the beach near the original settlement or up into the foothills as often as they can. They went out again today, and they took Chantal with them."

  "So the girl has some sense," Zalier chuckled and pulled Rosnine to her feet before kissing her. "I'd hate to think our future queen only concerned herself with the latest fashions and embroidery techniques."

  Rosnine giggled as she pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders and started on his shirt buttons.

  "Still, isn't she meant to help our beloved prince shield and protect his mind?" he asked. "Along with our privacy," he muttered. "Can she do so from far away?"

  "I don't know," Rosnine answered between kisses to his jaw. "You'd have to ask a telepath."

  "You know I've no desire to talk to those freaks."

  "Then why are we talking about them now?" Rosnine asked as she popped another button open and kissed down his throat. "We have a plush bed, and it's so nice and warm this evening."

  He caught her hands in his. She sighed and pulled away to pick up his waistcoat from the floor.

  "Aligh's aged poorly these past few years," he hissed. "We'll be saddled with that peeper and his field harpy within a year. Why shouldn’t I discuss them?"

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "I know, but what can we do?" Rosnine turned from where she'd hung his coat to face him again. "He's the King's chosen heir, and field harpy or no, Maya's been good for Lanre's health."

  "Shame," he grumbled. "One thing about the Virchow line up until now, the freaks have had the decency to die before they neared the throne. No one person should have that much power!"

  "It's a pity Ralic got himself removed from the line," said Rosnine. Her back was to him, and she had her arms contorted to get at the line of buttons between her shoulder blades. He watched as she somehow managed to work them free. "He had such vision!"

  Warmth flooded Zalier's chest as he recalled a snippet of conversation at tonight's banquet. One of Aligh's generals postulated Chantal was there because of Ralic's restoration to the line behind Lanre. He smiled as he stalked over to his wife and spun her to his chest. Zalier crushed his lips to hers, stifling her surprised squeak in a triumphant kiss. Her eyes were glazed, and she was panting when he pulled back.

  "Rosnine, my love," he said. "You've just given me the best idea."

  Brigton spent over an hour mourning with and consoling Tricon, and it’d left him drained by the time he returned home. His body demanded rest, but he didn’t want to fall asleep. He suspected Lanre would visit him once the banquet ended.

  A soft knock roused Brigton from his reverie, and he called for the visitor to enter. Lanre’s shoulders slumped, and his eyes were downcast when he pushed the door open. Brigton couldn’t remember a time when Lanre had looked so exhausted.

  Lanre placed his torch in the sconce by the door and collapsed near Brigton’s foreclaws. He offered his wrist for Lanre to lean against, and his friend sagged against him. The prince held his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as grief took him.

  Brigton’s heart ached for Lanre. He wanted to comfort his friend but felt Lanre wasn’t ready to speak.

  After a time, the sobs calmed. Lanre’s weight shifted as he stood. “Thank you,” said Lanre, “for letting me grieve.”

  “Tricon told me of today’s news,” Brigton answered. “I am sorry.”

  “Emotions run high for everyone today.”

  “Yes.” Brigton watched Lanre pace in the torchlight. “I asked Deligh to have a bottle sent round. It’s on the table should you feel the need.” Lanre turned to him, brow creased in an exaggerated mask of confusion. “You always come here when you need to sort your emotions from those around you, and I had a feeling you might need extra help tonight.”

  “It’s quiet here,” Lanre agreed. He raked a hand through his hair and tugged on the ends. “It helps.”

  “We are your eye in the storm.”

  Lanre huffed and shook his head. “You’re my link to sanity.”

  He walked over to the table and chair Brigton kept for his visits and poured a glass of wine from the decanter before flopping into the chair. He scrubbed at his eyes before raking his hands through his hair again.

  “There’s so much in my head,” he said. “Curiosity, fear, ambition, sorrow, jealousy, and I can never be sure what’s mine half the time.” He punctuated his words with harsh raps to the side of his head.

  Brigton winced. Terrans were such soft-skinned things, yet he’d seen Lanre do this many times when agitated. Didn’t that hurt?

  “All I know for certain is my head is pounding, and I grieve for my mother.”

  Brigton bit back the urge to suggest his head was pounding because he kept hitting it. “When will Ralic be charged?”

  “Tomorrow if all goes well,” Lanre answered. “We have more than enough evidence to justify a warrant.”

  Brigton didn’t know what to say. How do you comfort someone who has lost their mother? What do you say to someone whose mother was murdered for spite?

  “You said Tricon told you what happened?” Lanre asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Maya asked me to check up on him.”

  “He’s grieving,” Brigton answered, “like you.” He crossed his forelegs and rested his head on them to meet Lanre eye to eye. “He’s alone in the world now, save Maya.”

  “I know. How is he?”

  “He alternates between rage and depression,” Brigton answered. “Much as I suspect you will in the days to come.” He turned his head toward Tricon’s apartment and listened. The huffing of a Yekaran crying wasn’t there, only quiet. “Either he’s left the castle, which I doubt, or he’s finally drifted into sleep,” Brigton said. “Leave him be, Lanre. His sleep will be troubled tonight. I’ll watch over him.”

  The young man came close and patted Brigton’s shoulder. Lanre scratched a dry patch behind Brigton's skull ridge. Brigton hummed in delight at the relief afforded a place too delicate to scratch himself, awed once again by the dexterity of human fingers.

  “Thank you, Brigton,” Lanre said and left to find rest of his own.