“Denand is eager for resolve.” The Treasurer’s voice cracks when he speaks, and Taeg fidgets. “Just as the drought has plagued our farmlands, so has it affected Denand’s production. Not nearly enough to feed her own.” The elderly man’s hands are intertwined on the table’s surface, twitching. His yellowed fingernails are trimmed meticulously.

  Taeg is leaning forward in his chair, his elbow planted on the table as his right hand moves along his jaw, thumbing the stubble that pokes through the pale skin of his cheeks. The Chamberlain had mentioned it this morning, insisting that he would call an attendant to have him groomed. Taeg had waved him off.

  “We’re off making promises to other countries when we should be takin’ care of ourselves,” the Grand Master’s hand slaps down, rattling his plate. “Send a bloody fruit basket to shut the bitch up.”

  The Chamberlain, cutting into his meat pie with delicate fingers, sighs as the rumble spreads across the table, jostling his breakfast. His hands hover over the dish until it passes. Taeg, watching from the corner of his eye, smirks. This morning's council had been greeted by a howling windstorm, bursting through the curtains with a powerful spray of sand and grit. The attendants had rushed upstairs to tie the cloth down, their hair astray, their eyes apologetic. The room was unusually dark, with lamps lit in the corners, flickering as the wind snuck through the gaps in the window coverings. The sound of sand raining upon their backsides drowned out the sounds of the kitchen below.

  “What about the witches?” Argos bellows, as if his booming voice could not be heard over the roar.

  “Alchemists,” the Chamberlain corrects. “Unrelated, Argos.”

  A fury redder than the rosacea already living on the Grand Master’s cheeks boils into his great forehead. A vein just above his ample eyebrow pulses. “I think the more pressing matter at hand is that of Tauris, Gideon. Without that matter solved, there’s no fix to the Denand kerfuffle. We need Tauris’s cooperation and Silon off our backs.”

  “There has been no news from General Stoles. We anticipated a lapse in communication.” Gideon replies without looking up from his pie, placing a bite carefully into his mouth and chewing with his eyes closed.

  This morning, each issue came like fire from the mouths of fervent dragons, with barely enough room in between to breathe. The Chamberlain had answered most, sensing Taeg’s disdain.

  “We don’t have the resources,” the Treasurer had pleaded.

  “There will be negotiations with Tauris,” Gideon replied.

  “When can we expect negotiations to be had with Tauris?” The Chancellor asked.

  “Soon,” Gideon replied.

  “Your Grace is vulnerable while the guardsmen are in Tauris” The Grand Master had puffed his chest.

  “Which is why you are here, Argos,” Gideon droned.

  Now an hour later, the Chancellor, fiddling with a dragonfly broach on his chest, opens his thin mouth, interrupting Taeg’s lamenting thoughts.

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  “On the matter of the corpse boy-”

  Taeg flinches. “Prince Kelo,” he corrects, lowering his hand from his mouth, eyes locked on the elder. Each member of the council takes turns looking down at the table, and the Chancellor shifts his body, tugging down on his doublet.

  “Yes. Of course, Your Grace.”

  Gideon swallows, speaking sternly. “Though the High Priest could not join us today, he has been instructed to update the Kerrich lineage. Prince Kelo is to be named heir to our King until His Grace can marry.” The Chamberlain tilts his head toward Taeg, jowls following.

  The Grand Master huffs. His thick lips move beneath his beard, but no sound can be heard. A meaty hand snatches up his ale, chugging it down and wiping the froth from his moustache. It was not often enough that Argos held his tongue.

  “Is there something on your mind?” Taeg asks, setting his hands atop one another, his rings clunking on the wood below.

  Argos sets his mug on the table with a thud, softer than before, and pushes his shoulders back. The leather of his vest creaks. Wind presses heavily on the curtains, spraying sand through the gaps in the sides, extinguishing a corner lamp at the back of the room that darkens the Grand Master’s hardened face.

  “You’d make a bastard the heir to the throne?” His lips pull back as he says the word, baring his teeth, revealing a chipped canine.

  Taeg does not move, his eyes planted on the bear of a man. He allows two breaths to fill his lungs, expelling them gently through his nose. The only sound heard is the wind flapping against the window cloths and the roar of his own thoughts.

  “Get out.”

  Tension burns through the room. Argos jerks his head back, his nose scrunching up into his eyes, an ugly face. “What-” he starts, his mouth agape, hands flying upwards.

  “You are no longer a part of this council.”

  A painting that had been attached to the wall near the southern-most window clatters to the floor, uprooted by the wind. It is the painting of his father’s horse, a gray gelding by the name of Turk. Gideon, having paused his breakfast to stare wide-eyed at the Grand Master, resumes his meal, humming as he cuts through a large slice of meat. The Treasurer’s eyes move from Taeg to the fuming mercenary.

  Taeg repeats himself, his voice calm. “Remove yourself.”

  The Grand Master freezes, hands placed flat upon the table to stare at the empty space between them. “Your father…” he hesitates, mumbling. “Turning over in his grave.” Shaking his head, Argos swipes his mug to drain the rest of his ale and jolts up, stomping toward the door. He turns, snarling. “Your mother would weep.” Nearly ripping the handle from the door, he bursts into the hallway and down the stairwell with heavy footfalls, slamming the door behind him. It rattles Gideon’s breakfast once again.

  A sigh rips through Taeg’s chest. He sits back in the wooden chair beneath him to rub his eyes. Relief comes as another burst of wind announces the great silence left by the Grand Master. He drops his hands to his lap, eyes closed to the flickering lamplight. His father’s only regret would be that he had not dismissed Argos sooner, and his mother would surely appreciate the honor given to her eldest son. Taeg opens his eyes to a council of three. The Chamberlain is shoving the last bite of pastry into his mouth and slides his plate away from him, dabbing at his heavy moustache. Gideon’s eyes meet his with a slight uplift in the corner of his lips.

  “If I may interrupt, Your Grace,” the Treasurer quips, lifting a finger. “Who is to replace the Grand Master at council?”

  Taeg leans forward again, placing a hand on his forehead. Gideon begins to answer, a ceremoniously placed, “Well,” before Taeg waves a hand to stop him.

  “General Nathis Stoles will serve in the Grand Master’s place, Marius,” Taeg says.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Until we hear from him, this council is dismissed.” The scraping sound of chairs splits the sound of the wind. “And Chancellor,” Taeg continues, gazing up at the frail elder, “Make yourself useful. Go to Denand. Negotiate wishes. Don’t come back until you can remember that my brother is the rightful heir, not a corpse boy.” He grimaces at the words.

  The Chancellor licks his lips, bowing. “Your Grace.”

  The Chamberlain remains, finishing his glass of wine. He sets it down with a clink, wiping the droplets from his whiskers. “If you listen very closely,” he says, pinching two fingers together with squinting eyes, “I’m sure I can hear Roen Kerrich applauding you from the grave.” He smiles.