Page 17 of Kept

Given bowed her head, a blush staining her cheeks.

Jordan looked directly at Lar Guna, and his voice rolled with power that filled the chamber with the scent of leaves and the distant sound of rushing water. “Your queen is a direct descendant of Avenor of Eldenvalla. Your king has ten bly’ad on his tongue. They will do their duty by Nor Doru, Lord Lar Guna. Do not forget it.”

Lar Guna’s lips parted. “I won’t,” he rasped.

Jordan nodded. Then he looked at me.

Well. Perhaps more inspiring than I’d thought.

“It’s late,” I said. “Let’s seek our beds and meet again tomorrow when our minds are fresh.”

The room emptied quickly. Lar Guna beat a hasty exit, likely headed to his bedchamber to change his trousers and chant a few protection rites. Varick moved to the table and sat next to Given.

As I expected, Jordan stayed, his boyish facade firmly in place as the door closed behind the last of the lords.

I gave him a pointed look. “I take it you didn’t foresee the humans stuffing mirrors under Rolund’s funeral pyre?”

“Like you, Your Grace, I’m far from perfect. My sight isn’t always clear. But to answer your question, I didn’t know about the mirrors.” He hesitated, something like annoyance crossing his face. “I was aware of Lord Rellan’s presence at court, but I assumed he’d simply traveled to Beldurn for the funeral.”

I sat heavily in my chair. “Well, he’s in the thick of your prophecy now.” I shoved a hand through my hair. “If he were smart, he’d get the fuck out of it,” I muttered.

“As I’ve told you, it’s not—”

“Your prophecy, I know.” I propped my elbow on the arm of my chair and rested my chin on my hand. “It belongs to us all.”

Jordan looked like he couldn’t decide if I were serious or joking. “I’m sorry about Petru,” he said, sounding sincere. “I know he was your mentor.”

“A frequently disappointed one.”

Jordan eyed me. “Is that what you think?”

I kept my chin on my hand. “Don’t pretend to know the inner workings of the Sanctum, Brother Jordan. Your gods and mine are not the same.”

“We don’t have gods in Wesyfedd, Your Grace. I believe you know that.”

I did, and he wasn’t being completely honest. The Wesyfeddans worshipped the land, which was probably what had allowed them to raise the Thicket. They had a few names for the elemental deities, although they believed all magic sprang from the same central source.

“Will you appoint a new high priest?” he asked, those disarming blue eyes as penetrating as the day he’d arrived in my court and claimed he had something important to tell me.

“I haven’t given it much thought. I have to say a rite for the old one first.” Also, I couldn’t imagine anyone but Petru in that role. I straightened. “It’s late.”

Jordan understood he’d been dismissed, and he stepped away from the table. “Perhaps you should give it some thought, Your Grace.” He nodded to Given and Varick. “Good evening, Your Grace. My lord.”

“Good evening, Jordan,” Given said softly.

I waited a few minutes after Jordan’s footsteps had faded before I slumped in my chair. “Just once, I wish that little shit would say something without being cryptic.” I rolled my head along the back of the chair and looked at Given. “Sorry I left you alone when we returned, princess.”

There was no anger in her blue eyes. “I had Varick.”

I smiled as I glanced at him. “There is no one else I’d have at your side.”

“He said you were praying.”

I swallowed, almost wishing she was angry. The lack of it raised a curious lump in my throat. “I was.”

She stretched her hand across the table, the simple wedding band I’d given her catching the candlelight. “I’m sorry about Petru, too.”

I leaned forward so I could take her fingers. I rubbed my thumb over her wedding ring and swallowed the lump. “Thank you, darling. He deserved better.” The old male had always been gruff when my father punished me, stooping and hauling me up by the armpits when I passed out. “You waste your gifts. So much power in these veins, and you spend your time chasing the Lar Keiren boy.”

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