14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Later that night, Gray, Rory, Evrard and the five members of Rory's guard gathered around a bonfire outside the farmhouse. Evrard began the planning session by insisting that timeliness was one of the most pressing factors. "We need to rally who we can before Sabrina gets the chance. It is exponentially more difficult for her. You"—Evrard swung his head in Rory's direction—"are the Crown Prince of Fontaine. She cannot outright accuse you of treason, because any treason you would be committing wouldn't be treason at all."

Rory nodded thoughtfully. "Because the throne is already rightfully mine," he said.

"Likely she has already spread the word that you aren't a particularly sound choice to rule, but that won't be enough to turn everyone against you." Evrard hesitated. "There has been talk for the last two years of why she has not encouraged you to take the place that is rightfully yours. That works in our favor."

"Then why do we not ride for Beaulieu?" Gray asked, and he hadn't even tried to hide his eagerness at the possibility they could indefinitely postpone his return to Ardglass. He'd really been hoping they could put off their journey to Tullamore as long as possible.

"We have no army," Evrard said. "How do you propose we find one?"

"You don't mean . . ." Gray faltered. "You don't mean for me to muster the Ardglassian army."

"Unless you have another army at hand that you are willing and able to call to arms," Evrard said pointedly.

This was not at all how Gray had hoped the meeting would go. He'd been hoping that Evrard's plan for returning to Ardglass, back to the castle fortress of Tullamore, would be both slow and steady. Emphasis on the slow. It would have been silly to believe that he'd get more used to the idea with additional time, but Gray had hoped he could put off the inevitable at least a few more days. Give them more time to rest and gather supplies.

But clearly that was not in Evrard's plans.

Instead of continuing to participate, he sat and stewed in his own pointless, annoying thoughts as the meeting continued around him. He barely listened as the rest discussed provisions, weapons, the route, even the formation they would ride into Tullamore in, but it was only at the very end of their summit that Gray chose to open his mouth again.

"What about Gideon?" Gray finally asked flatly. "I very much doubt he will just let me waltz in and confiscate his army."

He met Anya's eyes from across the fire, flashing in the dancing lights. "Your father is in no position to deny a returning prince, wielding his consort's magical sword, the army of his birthright," she said fervently.

Consort? Gray had to force himself not to glance over at Rory to see his reaction. That kind of permanence had never been discussed between them, though Gray had a feeling Rory would not exactly mind it. Still, a commitment of that kind was serious, and should be approached seriously, and not decided by others. Still, Gray didn't address her terminology, because that was a whole other issue, and a voice in his head pointed out, with much of Evrard's inflection that right now is not the right time for that discussion.

"What is the matter with Gideon?" he asked instead, refusing to identify him as Anya had. Gideon might be his sire, but he had not been his father for a very long time.

"I think," Evrard interrupted, "that is a matter you will need to see for yourself, Gray." His voice made it abundantly clear that nobody was to discuss Gideon's state of mind any further.

But, hearing Anya's opinion of Gideon's state had certainly not made him any more eager to return to Tullamore.

Gray slept poorly, tossing and turning in his bed, despite Rory snoring delicately next to him, his dreams full of fire and blood and beautiful women melting into fearsome beasts.

As he'd suspected the evening before, they were on their horses at first light.

The only surprise was that Evrard refused to be ridden. Gray's old horse had returned to the stables, mostly intact, and so he mounted him, and Rory his own horse. Gray did not want to admit it in front of Evrard or any of Rory's guard, but he immediately missed the feeling of Rory's slender frame pressed to his back, reassuring and grounding him.

The truth was, he needed the comfort and encouragement of his touch more than ever, because it had become increasingly clear that Evrard did not only mean for him to reveal himself as the lost prince, but to take his rightful place next to his father like nothing had ever forced him to abandon it. That was a whole other thorny problem that Gray had not even begun to wrestle with—and yet he already felt bruised and battered and stung by its sharp points.

Returning to the place which had once been his home was one thing; returning to command the Ardglassian army was entirely another.

"Are you alright?" Rory asked when they stopped for a meal at midday. "You've been very quiet."

Marthe and Evrard had chatted on and off most of the morning, about various topics such as magical weapons, geographical points of interest, and history. Rory had inserted his opinion several times. Gray had not, and not only because he was not nearly as widely read as the others, but because he'd been sulking.

It was not something Gray was proud of, but the closer they grew to Tullamore, the more out-of-sorts he felt. He knew that he was in no real danger, not with Rory's guard and Lion's Breath at his hip, but the feeling of dread grew in him anyway.

"I'm tired," Gray told Rory shortly, which was not an inaccurate statement. He had slept terribly.

Rory pushed that excuse to the side like it was entirely inconsequential. "Is it because we're growing nearer to Tullamore?"

"Of course not," Gray lied.

Rory shot him a reprimanding look and reached out to take Gray's hand. "It's perfectly understandable if you are nervous or apprehensive."

Nervous? Apprehensive?

Gray was something else entirely. Frightened, perhaps? Fearful? Anxious? He seemed to feel all of the above at the exact same time, the emotions roiling around in his stomach until even the thought of food made him want to lose what little was left in his stomach.

"It's a big step you are taking." Rory tried again, and made a face, scrunching his nose, which normally Gray would have found endearing, but he was not finding much endearing at the moment. "I'm saying all the wrong things, aren't I?"

Gray sighed. "I don't know what the right ones are. If I did, I would tell you so you could say them."

"How about this?" Rory asked and reached for him, pulling Gray into a fiercely protective hug. After a long moment, he leaned back and looked Gray right in the eyes, his golden gaze as fierce as Gray had ever seen it. "I vow to stay by your side, no matter what. You will not have to do this alone."

There was a part of Gray that shrieked loudly that the only way he could do this was alone, but he didn't want to listen to that voice anymore, so he merely nodded his agreement. "I would like that very much," he said. He leaned down and brushed a quick kiss across Rory's lips. "You're a good friend."

Friendship was not entirely all they felt for each other—Gray could hardly deny that his romantic feelings were very strong indeed—but he did not want to unpack another problem by bringing up the particular term Anya had used earlier. Consort.

Rory didn't seem to be upset by Gray's word choice, though, he merely smiled and let him go, drifting over to his horse. "We'll get through this. The worst is always the anticipation."

Gray wasn't sure he quite agreed, but it was undoubtedly not helping. He remounted his horse and tried to clear his mind as they set off again on the road to Tullamore.

During the afternoon's ride, Evrard switched positions from trotting near Marthe and her mount to moving back to where Gray brought up the rear of the procession. Anya had objected to this orientation, claiming that he would not be as well-protected, but Gray had merely laid a hand on the pommel of Lion's Breath and she had stopped arguing.

Gray had also expected to receive some form of protest that he was wielding, at least for now, Rory's ancestral sword, but his guard had accepted it silently. Even Marthe had not argued, which was surprising, considering how many strongly held opinions she seemed to have. He wondered if it was because they'd all accepted him as Rory's consort, and as such, it was his right to hold any weapon he needed to protect the Crown Prince.

"I see you did not correct Anya's use of the word, consort," Evrard said, as if he was reading Gray's mind, which, knowing what he did about Evrard's magic, might be entirely possible.

"Neither of us is eager to place such a label on our friendship," Gray said placidly, refusing to give the unicorn the reaction he was clearly in search of.

"You've only known each other for a few weeks," Evrard pointed with a serious nod of understanding. "But they have been fraught weeks. You are growing very close."

Gray ground his teeth together. "You are clearly aware of what you wish to know, why don't you just pluck it out of my head? You're capable of doing it."

"It would not be nearly so satisfying if you did not admit it freely and out loud," Evrard observed placidly.

"You should just go back to discussing the weather every fifth year with Marthe. You'll get much further in your quest."

Evrard was silent for several minutes as their company made its way down the road, thick forest rising up on either side of the well-kept trail. Whatever state Gideon was in, at least he had not let his kingdom entirely go to rot.

"Yes," he finally said, "that is why they have said nothing about you wielding Lion's Breath. You will be Rory's consort."

Gray stared straight ahead. "Which am I to be?" he questioned darkly, "Rory's consort or the leader of Ardglassian armies? Because I cannot do both. I cannot be both."

"Graham," Evrard said softly, "you are capable of anything you set your mind to. I know you understand that, as I raised you to believe it. And as yet, I do think there may be a different solution to the problem of Ardglass that we have yet to see."

"I was hoping such an enormous problem would solve itself," Gray grunted. Any comfort he'd had from Rory's embrace had evaporated under Evrard's pointed questions, and though he knew he'd regret it, all he wanted was to turn around and ride at breakneck speed back to his valley and never, ever leave. Maybe it would mean losing Rory, which would be difficult, but at least this relentless pressure on his chest might finally lessen.

"I think when we arrive, I will see things differently, and there may be a solution I have not considered," Evrard said, clearly unconcerned. "I do know your love affair with Rory was foretold, and therefore there must be a satisfactory answer to whether you should become Rory's consort and help him rule Fontaine or continue to lead Ardglass and its armies."

Gray rolled his eyes. "The kingdoms could always be united," he pointed out, and then regretted his words instantly. That had likely been Evrard's goal all along in drawing him into this particular conversation. He'd wanted to know if Gray had spent any time considering the problems at hand and had devised any possible solutions.

He would have liked to deny it, but Evrard was right—he'd been raised to be a leader and to face obstacles without flinching. He would have to be an entirely different person than he was to not consider what could be done about his lineage and Rory's birthright.

"Possibly," Evrard said, "though that seems like an inordinate amount of work and statecraft for one royal marriage. Easier, I think, to leave them separate."

"Maybe easier to leave us separate," Gray said morosely.

But Evrard only whinnied in disapproval. "We both know you're lying when you say that would be a simpler solution," he observed. "As I said, your mutual love was written long before either of you were born. You are fooling yourself if you believe your feelings are so weak that you could easily turn away from him and the future he offers."

That was always the problem with Evrard; sometimes he knew Gray's mind better than Gray knew it himself. Because it was not just Rory himself, it was the promise of a future with companionship and love, nothing like the last fifteen years, where he'd been forced to rely entirely on himself. What he had always wanted, much as he tried to deny it, was someone by his side, and now that he had met Rory, there was no other possible person he could ever envision in that place.

"Ah, I thought so," Evrard continued, his knowing tone doing nothing to lessen Gray's annoyance.

They reached the edges of Tullamore midday on the third day of their journey.

The spires of Tullamore stood like solemn gray figures, reaching toward the bright sky. Gray had not seen their unusual spiky shapes in so many years, yet they were so familiar to him it felt like yesterday that he had looked upon them for the last time.

As they rode through the village, Gray noticed many changes from when he had last been here. The houses and huts seemed much worse for the wear, repairs done poorly or not done at all, and a malaise of spirit lay over property and person alike. Everybody they passed gave them a cursory, dead-eyed stare, but nobody inquired who they were or seemed to have any interest past observing they existed. Gray felt himself grow gradually more and more uncomfortable as they rode closer to the gated entry to the keep.

He knew upon the deaths of Rory's parents, Sabrina had returned to Fontaine, and left Ardglass behind. Why then, once Gideon had shaken off the influence of her magic and rotten advice, had Ardglass not returned to its normally thriving state?

The only comfort Gray took was at least the village was not in worse shape than Nargash had been. But with a few more years of neglect, he was not certain anyone would be able to tell the difference.

They approached the gate, the very same one Gray had faced Sabrina's chimera over, but there were no magical creatures present, only a few bored soldiers who barely glanced up at their party before moving for them to pass.

The night before, they had originally planned to approach Tullamore in a diamond formation, surrounding Rory, who would change back into his fine clothes that befit a crown prince, and Gray would take up the rear, next to Evrard—who was, at least for now, remaining in his disguise as a regular horse.

But now, Gray felt his gorge rise at the lack of discipline, and at the appalling lack of security. These men were simply going to let a troop of heavily armed guards ride directly into the heart of Ardglass, and do whatever they wished. Additionally, they were accompanying a man of clearly noble or royal blood. Gray could bear it no longer.

"Halt," Gray called out abruptly and pulled up on the reins of his horse. The rest of the group hesitated, but did not stop immediately, as he had. "I said, halt."

A man with greasy hair and a sullen attitude separated himself from the group of soldiers and approached Gray. Marthe and the others had finally turned around and were trotting back to where Gray had suddenly come to a stop.

"What's the problem?" the man slurred.

Drinking? Gray wondered, a fierce and devastating anger taking hold of him as he observed the rest of the soldiers behind him, one unashamedly taking a long swig from a flask he carried at his hip.

"Are you not on duty?" Gray asked between clenched teeth.

"Aye, yes, we are on duty. Protectin' this gate," he said, expansively waving to the large stone structure on either side of the tall archway.

"Then you are doing a criminally terrible job," Gray said. "Poor enough that I would have you arrested for treason against Ardglass, right here, right now. You are not guarding the gate, you are merely observing the people who move in and out of it, not caring a single bit what their business is or who it is with. An army could come charging through this gate, and I doubt you would even bring yourselves to care."

The man gaped at Gray. "Who are you?" he asked, a little less bored now, but no more concerned about the massive gap in training than he had been before.

Gray heard a horse trot up next to him, and wondered if it would be Rory, there to push home the fact that the guards had just allowed in the Crown Prince of a neighboring kingdom without a single inquiry. When he glanced to the side, he saw it was not Rory at all, but Anya, green eyes flashing, her expression the fiercest he had ever seen it.

"On your knees, soldier," Anya said, drawing her sword, the steel scraping against the scabbard, a sound that nobody in this keep would ever mistake for anything else.

Glaring, the man took a step closer to Anya, which Gray normally wouldn't have recommended. It seemed an especially precarious choice considering Anya's skill with the sword she'd already drawn. All he would have to do was take one look at her, and the quiet, confident way she held it, grip firm but loose, and coupled with her flawless stance, to know he wouldn't want to cross her. But the whole problem was that the guard had clearly stopped thinking.

"I don't know who you think you are. . ."

"Anya, of the Sheahish clan," she retorted calmly. "And you, sir, are too close to His Highness."

The man looked from Gray to Anya and then back to Gray again. He seemed baffled. "His Highness? Who is he?" he finally asked.

It had likely been inevitable from the moment Gray exited this very gate, fifteen years ago. No doubt his return had been foretold in the stars, just as his love for Rory had been. Inevitably, someday he would ride back to Ardglass, back to Tullamore, and reveal himself not to be just Gray, the simple farmhand, but Prince Graham, who had been lost until this moment.

I am not lost. Not anymore.

Gray dismounted and rested his hand on the pommel of Lion's Breath. Rory was behind him, but with his sword in his hand, it felt like he was much nearer. And Gray knew he needed that extra bit of courage for what he was about to say.

"On your knees," he repeated, "I am Prince Graham, come home at last to regain my place in the marble-lined halls of Tullamore."

Incredulous, the man stared at him for a long, drawn-out second. Would he recognize him? Had he ever met Prince Graham before this day? Would it matter? Surely, Gray would be required to provide some proof of his claim, but he could hardly do so now, not in front of this humble soldier.

Then, without a word, the guard fell to his knees. "Your Highness," he mumbled, face practically in the dirt. "Your Highness has finally returned. We are blessed and we are mighty."

The words echoed through him like they'd never been missing from his life for so many long, interminable years. "We are Ardglass," Gray finished.

A hard wind whipped through the courtyard as his words echoed through it.

Evrard stepped up, and as he walked towards the guard, his disguise as a regular horse melted away, revealing his shimmering white body and the single, arresting horn, touched with shades of blue, on his forehead. "We are Ardglass, indeed," he said. "The winds of change come, and nothing shall be the same after."

The man glanced up to see who had spoken and fell back to the ground. "A unicorn," he exhaled in hushed, reverent tones. "Come to Tullamore with our prince."

The other men began to walk over, and seeing the vision of Evrard, also took to their knees.

Gray didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed that the Ardglassian guard seemed to be much more interested in Evrard than in him. But then, that was exactly the sort of thing Evrard lived for, Gray thought darkly.

But just as the thought crossed his mind, Evrard drew himself up to his full intimidating height and said, "This display is embarrassing. Get to your feet and take us to King Gideon at once."

They scrambled upwards, and that was when Rory and his guard, surrounding him, approached. "All is well?" Rory asked, his concern clearly more for Gray and his chaotic emotions than for their safe passage.

"All is as it should be," Evrard said beatifically.

Gray didn't speak, because he wasn't sure he trusted himself to answer.

As they rode towards the keep itself, the guard walked ahead and cried every minute, "He is returned, your prince has returned."

This time they were not ignored by anyone in the courtyard; every eye was on them—watching their party intently, whispering amongst themselves and pointing, quite obviously, at Gray himself.

Gray found himself wishing that he had heeded Evrard and Rory's advice and had worn something a little less threadbare than his usual shirt and breeches, with his dark, serviceable cloak tossed over his shoulders. No doubt he did not look much like a prince.

But then, he told himself firmly, that was entirely the point. He had not been a prince for the last fifteen years.

Finally, they reached the inner gate, and the steward standing there. Gray did not recognize him, but then that was not so surprising; he had been gone a very long time.

On the other hand, the steward certainly seemed to recognize him. He stared with no shame, so intently and at such length that any other time, he'd no doubt be dismissed for his rude, uncouth behavior. For all they were considered "barbaric," in comparison to the elegant, refined people of Fontaine, Ardglassians were prickly about the impression they gave others. None more so than Gideon himself.

Or at least he had been, before the lady of Fontaine had come to his court and sucked out every other care he had, except for drink and the pleasures of the flesh.

"Your Highness," the steward said after his long examination. He dropped to a single knee his arm crossed over his chest in a gesture of deep respect. "Your father will be so pleased that you are returned to us."

Gray did not really think so, but he was not going to confess that to the steward. "Please tell His Majesty that I, and Prince Emory of Fontaine, wish for an audience." He paused. "Immediately."

"Will Your Highnesses wish to clean up first?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"No," Gray said at the very same time Rory said, "Yes."

The steward looked between them in confusion.

"Yes," Gray corrected, rolling his eyes. Wiping a damp cloth over his face wasn't going to change his very un-prince-like appearance, or his un-prince-like manners, but he was willing to defer to Rory, because Rory had a much better idea of proper etiquette these days.

The guard dismounted, and their horses were led to the stables to be watered and fed. The guards had hesitated, awed expressions on their faces, as they had stared at Evrard. He was of horse-like stature, but he spoke and was gleaming, flawless white. He did not seem the type of creature to take being banished to a stable very well.

"I will wait here," Evrard said, enunciating his words with dignity. "Then we shall go into King Gideon's throne room together."

Rory and Gray were led to a medium-sized chamber near the main gate, shown warmed, scented clean water, and additional clothing items in a large carved wooden wardrobe. Gray was glad they had not separated them, because he desperately wanted to talk to Rory privately at least once before he was forced to confront Gideon.

"This must seem very strange to you," Rory said, untying his bright blue cloak and carefully pushing up the sleeves on his yellow doublet, so he could dip his hands into the shallow basin of water.

"It is very something," Gray admitted. He supposed, after three days on the road, he could do with a wash. He took his own cloak off, and after a moment of hesitation, also pulled his shirt off. Dipping one of the cloths into the water, he washed quickly and efficiently.

Rory eyed him as he was finishing. "Perhaps you should see the different options available," he pointed out. "Not that your current sartorial choices are not . . . diverting."

Gray sighed. "I'm not a pretty prince. I'll never be like you. It seems foolish to even try."

"You would feel better if you walked into your father's throne room and you weren't wearing the same tunic you wore to shovel manure," Rory pointed out.

He wasn't sure when Rory had started to sound so much like Evrard, but Gray didn't know if he liked it. Still, he walked over to the wardrobe and pulled the large, carved doors open. Rows upon rows of tunics, in a rainbow of colors and sizes, lay before him. Deep drawers with different breeches, and even decorative metal belts greeted him when he gazed down from the racks.

"Here," Rory said, elbowing him out of the way, and plucking a forest green tunic of fairly simple design, but luxuriously soft fabric out of the wardrobe. "You need no belt as you will wear Lion's Breath at your hip."

Gray took the tunic and pulled it over his head. The size was spot-on, and the color flattering. He even felt like he stood a little taller as he gazed in the mirror. Carefully re-buckling his belt with the sword, Gray glanced up at Rory. "Are you certain you wish me to carry it?" he asked. He did not want to necessarily remind Rory that walking into the throne room of Tullamore wielding Rory's sword would give a certain impression, but the last thing he wanted was to fool Rory into doing so without him understanding the full ramifications.

If Gideon saw him bearing Fontaine's sword—and he would certainly recognize its distinctive design—he would assume Gray had pledged not only his defense, but his future, to Rory. That was not entirely a bad thing, but it would be if it wasn't what Rory wanted.

But Rory put his hand out, covering Gray's own as it loosely held the pommel. "The sword is yours," Rory said softly. "And all that it entails."

So he did know, Gray thought, and his world realigned with the idea that Rory not only wanted him by his side, but he wanted him there for the rest of their lives. "I know," Rory added, "how big a decision it is, and I am not asking you to make it now, not when so much is uncertain with Ardglass, but it would be my honor for you to bear Lion's Breath today."

Gray swallowed hard. There were words of love on the tip of his tongue, and surely those would need to be spoken before they made any promises to each other, but for right now, Rory was right. This was enough. "And I am honored beyond measure to wield it," he answered, leaning down and brushing a kiss against Rory's mouth. "Nothing would give me greater happiness, in fact."

"Then it is decided," he said, his smile bright and unwavering. So certain that Gray felt his breath catch with all that he could mean.

When Gray and Rory rejoined Evrard, he gave a quick, supportive nod. "I see you have worked your good influence over him," Evrard said towards Rory. "I am impressed."

Gray glared. "I am not so bad as that," he argued.

"No, but very stubborn," Evrard sniffed.

It was hardly like he was the only stubborn creature present. It would be easier to focus on this silly, circular argument with Evrard, but there were far more important matters at hand that required Gray's attention and his concentration, so he kept his mouth shut, and watched as Rory's guard approached. They'd not shed any of their armor, and it shone in the shafts of sunlight that fell into the large entry hall from the enormous skylights above.

"Are you ready, my prince?" Marthe asked, directing the question towards Rory, who nodded. Then, to Gray's surprise, she switched her attention to him. "And you, Prince Graham?" she asked.

Gray did not particularly like that suddenly everything felt so formal between them and that she'd addressed him by his title, but to do anything else, he realized, would undermine his position. And frankly, his position already felt precarious.

"I am, Captain," Gray said.

"Then," Marthe said, gesturing to the steward, "let us proceed."

This hall that led to the main reception and throne room was one Gray remembered all too well. He'd trodden it numerous times over his eleven years residing in Tullamore. Sometimes it was because his father had asked him to meet nobles who had traveled from the clans, and sometimes it was because he'd done something particularly naughty and Rhys had insisted he confess the misdeed directly to his father.

It was very odd to be back here after so much time, and to be walking in the same hall, next to Evrard, who was and also was not, the tutor who had enforced his discipline all those years back.

Finally, they came to a halt at a pair of enormous double doors, worked in silver and studded in iron. "Your Highnesses," the steward said, "I will announce you now."

He pulled the doors open, and Gray dug his fingernails into his palm at the sight. The throne room, with its walls of green marble and intricate silk hangings, was still spotless—every bit as awe-inducing and spectacular as Gray had remembered it being—but the man sitting on the silver throne mounted on the dais was a stranger.

Gideon had always been a broad-shouldered, largely built man, famous for swinging his enormous war hammer from his destrier. But the man sitting on the throne now was bent and weak, his body shrunk and his hair thin and graying. He looked nothing like the man Gray remembered.

"Your Majesty," the steward said, his voice growing louder as he approached the throne. Was he also now hard of hearing? Gray flinched at the thought of his powerful, majestic father brought to this humiliating end, and vowed to do whatever it took to eliminate breath from Sabrina's lungs.

"Who is it?" Gray could barely hear the King's tremulous voice.

"Your son, Your Majesty," the steward said, excitement leaking into his voice. "Your son has returned."

It might have been Gray's desperate imagination, but he thought Gideon sat a bit straighter at the news.

"It cannot be," he said slowly. "Graham is dead. Lost. This must be an impostor, come to torment an old man."

It was no more than Gray had expected, but it still hurt.

"Who else is there?" the King asked, and Rory stepped forward, his guard flanking him.

"I am Prince Emory, Your Majesty," Rory said, bending slightly, as befitted his stature and the man in front of him. For all his bookishness, Rory clearly knew exactly the etiquette required for a prince to meet a king. Gray had known the same rules once, but he'd banished them from his mind, and now found that they did not return as easily as he'd hoped. Well, he thought, I have no intention of bowing to Gideon anyhow.

"Prince Emory, of Fontaine," Gideon said, rising slightly from the throne, his hands braced on the sides. Upright, the sight of him was even more awful. Gideon looked as if every ounce of health and vitality had been sucked out of him, leaving a decrepit, waning shell.

Gray pushed the despair away because the last thing he wanted was to feel for the man in front of him. He'd brought all this downfall on himself. He'd allowed Sabrina to become an advisor. He'd allowed her to take control. He'd ultimately allowed her to take his only son.

"Your appearance in my kingdom is a surprise," Gideon continued. "What is it you need?"

"I come to present your son to you, returned after many years of absence," Rory said.

Gray flinched again at the denial shadowing the King's features. "You are certainly led astray easily," Gideon said. "My son is dead."

Evrard, who was standing next to Gray still, chose that moment to walk forward towards the dais, and shock replaced the denial on Gideon's face. "Your Majesty, nobody has been led astray. The man before you now is indeed your son, as I am the one who rescued him from your creature. And, I am forced to add, yourself."

Guilt flushed Gideon's features. He said nothing.

Evrard glanced backwards at Gray, whose feet still seemed to be rooted in place, unmoving. He did not want to walk any closer, he did not want to see any more that could not be unseen, and yet this was another thing that he must do. He took one step and then another and then ten more, until he was standing directly next to Rory. Gray reached for his hand and took it, squeezing it tightly.

"I am indeed Graham, and I am no lie," he said, and while he'd hoped to keep his voice neutral, fury leaked into it.

The King took a hesitant step forward and then another, and Gray had to hold himself steady as he came closer and closer, until he was right in front of him. He could see the remnants of who Gideon had been, but they were slight and they were buried under trembling fingers, hazy eyes, and a waning strength that would never again dream of picking up a war hammer and brandishing it.

"Perhaps not," Gideon said slowly, reaching up to tremulously touch the side of Gray's face. "You do look much like him. Much as I'd imagined . . ." His voice trailed off, and Gray had not been mistaken. The guilt and shame in his eyes were unmistakable.

The King knew exactly who he was and he was only attempting to pretend because he did not want to face the enormity of what he had done.

"I am Graham," Gray repeated firmly. "You may either choose to accept me or continue to waste away in your disgrace. That is your choice. But I will not keep Prince Emory and his representatives here, subject to your uncertainty. Nor will I stay. If you have a question you wish to ask of me, then you should ask it. Otherwise"—he paused, remembering finally, some of the rules that Rhys had taught him about oration—"we will be gone from your borders by nightfall."

He started to turn, intending to leave, and a single desperate wail broke the silence. "Wait!" the King shouted. "Wait!"

Gray turned back, and knew his face was hard and unrelenting. This had been the hardest thing he had ever done, and instead of welcoming him home, the King had claimed he was a fraud.

"I was mistaken," the King said in a quiet, despairing voice. "I was wrong to call you a liar. You could be a pretender, but we both know you are not. But mostly I was entirely wrong to give you to her, all those years ago. If you are here, and willing to hear my apology, I would hope to hear your forgiveness." The King looked pitiful and pathetic, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Gray might have been more moved by the sight, but all he felt was righteous and indignant anger.

"You were wrong, yet I have no intention of offering any balm to your conscience," Gray stated. "I was given no quarter and had no choice but to abandon my home and my friends and my father, for fifteen years. There is no forgiveness left in me."

"I understand," Gideon said, his head bowed. "I would expect no less from the Crown Prince of Ardglass."

"Your Majesty," Evrard cut into the uncomfortable silence that followed. "We are also here to discuss the woman who convinced you to condemn your son to death. Certainly you are aware she is attempting to usurp Prince Emory's throne."

Clearly miserable, Gideon nodded. "I had heard of this," he finally acknowledged.

"We are here to formulate a plan to defeat her," Evrard said. "And for that we will need your assistance."

Gideon said nothing for a long, drawn-out moment. As if he almost did not trust himself. "I am willing to give whatever help you need," he said. "But my kingdom has, unfortunately like myself, grown weak. I am not sure we can offer much."

"Ardglass will offer whatever assistance is requested by my party," Gray said. "It is the very least you can do."

Gray collapsed onto the bed in the suite of rooms he'd just been shown to by the steward.

The rooms were not his own, or even the rooms of the Crown Prince, something he knew he was entitled to, but Gray was so exhausted, he couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment. From the moment he'd spotted the spires of Tullamore, he'd been braced for . . . something. Rejection? Acceptance? Apathy? He couldn't have predicted how Gideon would react to his arrival, but what he'd ended up facing had been truly worse than anything his imagination could have conjured.

There'd been a time when all he'd wanted was for his father to regret his actions. Gray had never guessed that regret could be so much more dangerous, so much more upsetting than dismissal. Regret carried claws with it and struck at his most tender, vulnerable spots. Regret brought visions of what could have been, and those hurt so much more fiercely than any memory of what had actually been.

He sighed, lying back and staring at the tapestry hung above the bed. Detailed and finely wrought, it told the story of the first Ardglassian king, the one who had originally united all the clans, and who had become their leader, at the people's insistence. Without him, Gray would never have existed. This castle would never have existed. And yet, he found himself not being particularly grateful this evening.

A knock sounded on the door, and Gray groaned softly, not wishing to rise from the bed. Only the thought that it could be Rory, come to find him, got him up and moving. Except when he opened the door, it was not Rory's slender figure and auburn curls he saw, but a stooped, wizened figure with thinning gray hair.

Gray stared at his father. "What do you want?" he asked. They'd parted—not on good terms, precisely, but at least under the assumption that Gray and Rory could summon the clans and request they lend their swords to defeat Sabrina.

Kill, Gray had corrected firmly, because after all the devastation and destruction she had wrought, he had no intention of letting her breathe past their inevitable confrontation. After all, she would have killed both him and Rory to serve her own purposes, and while his own life did not feel particularly valuable anymore, Rory's was priceless, and that could never be forgiven.

"I wish a word with you," Gideon said stiffly. One of his guards was a good distance away, watching the interaction between father and son intently, but made no move to follow when Gray eventually waved him in. He supposed they were not particularly worried that Gray would decide to perform patricide in retribution for Gideon's betrayal all those years ago.

"What is it?" Gray demanded, awkwardness at finally being alone with him overwhelming any manners he might once have had. He hadn't known that being alone together would make him alternately want to cry and shake his father so hard his teeth vibrated.

"You stated your ultimate purpose is to defeat Sabrina and place Prince Emory on the throne of Fontaine," Gideon said, and Gray would have to be a lot stupider to miss how careful his words were. "And you also stated your intention is not to leave her alive."

"I will kill her if she can be killed," Gray said grimly.

"You may . . ." Gideon cleared his throat. "You may hesitate when you hear what I am about to say. Or maybe you will not. I cannot say. I wrestled with my conscience if I should tell you the legacy Sabrina left me with, but I decided that it is only fair that the decision lie with you."

"What decision?" Gray did not like where this was going. Sabrina's legacy?

"Her magical hold on me was exceedingly strong. Otherwise"—Gideon glanced at the floor, and Gray was astonished and embarrassed to see his eyes were suddenly full of tears—"she never could have controlled me to the extent she did. I wished for many years I was stronger, not only because her hold over me devastated this kingdom, but because it cost me you."

"That is water under the bridge." Gray knew his tone was unrelenting, but only because if he did not stay strong, he too would break down. He'd been eleven when he had been forced to flee this place. A home and a father were supposed to be a bastion of safety and comfort, and it was a cold, hard realization when they were not.

"It is, but it is not," Gideon said regretfully. "Because when she removed herself, she let me know unequivocally that I would return to making my own decisions, but that I was also forever weakened by the void left by her power. The remnants are what keep me alive. Without the weak spark of her magic remaining inside me, I would . . ."

Gray swallowed hard. "You would die. Her death means your death."

Gideon spread his hands. In supplication? In apology? Gray was not sure, and truthfully was not sure he wanted to know. "She has known from the beginning that you could be her doom."

"And this is supposed to be a barrier forcing me to stay my hand?"

"I do not know, though I suspect yes, that is a convenient complication for her." Gideon leaned against the edge of the huge bed. "I know you are very angry with me, and you have every right to be. I simply . . . I did not want you to be ignorant of it when the moment came, even as I urge you with all haste that you must be her undoing."

The anger inside him surged dangerously. Gray's hand clenched into a tight fist. "So it is to be patricide, after all," he said bitterly.

"I do not tell you this to stay your hand against her," Gideon said. "I tell you this because if this is the last time we meet, I would like us to do so at least under honest terms."