Ruler, Rival, Exile. Морган Райс

priest spread hands tattooed with runes that danced with every twitch of his fingers.

      “It is not what I want, but what the gods require. They have given us victory. It is only right that we thank them with a suitable sacrifice.”

      “Are you saying that the victory was not due to the strength of my arm?” Irrien demanded. He let the threat seep into his voice. He used the priests when it suited him, but he would not let them control him.

      “Even the strongest must acknowledge the favor of the gods.”

      “I will give it thought,” Irrien said, which had been his answer to too many things already today. Demands for attention, demands for resources, a whole parade of people wanting to take portions of what he had won. It was the curse of a ruler, but also a symbol of his power. Every strong man who came begging to Irrien for his favor was an acknowledgment that he could not simply take what he wanted.

      They started to walk back toward the castle, and Irrien found himself planning, calculating where repairs would be needed and where monuments to his power could be put in place. In Felldust, a statue would be stolen or broken before it was completed. Here it might stand as a reminder of his victory for the rest of time. When he had healed, there would be a lot to do.

      He looked over the castle’s defenses as he and the others returned to it. It was strong; strong enough that he could hold out against the world if he wanted. If someone hadn’t opened the gates for his people, it genuinely could have held off his army until the inevitable conflicts of Felldust overtook it.

      He snapped his fingers at a servant. “I want any tunnels beneath this place filled in. I don’t care how many slaves die doing it. Then start on the ones in the city. I will not have a rat run where people can sneak without my knowledge.”

      “Yes, First Stone.”

      He continued into the castle. Already, servants were moving in the banners of Felldust. Yet there were others who didn’t seem to have gotten the message. Three of his men were tearing at tapestries, pulling stones from the eyes of statues and stuffing the resulting loot into their belt pouches.

      Irrien strode forward, and he saw them look around with the reverence that he liked to build in his men.

      “What are you doing here?” he asked.

      “Continuing the looting of the city, First Stone,” one answered. He was younger than the other two. Irrien guessed that he’d only joined the invasion force because of the promise of adventure. So many did.

      “And did your commanders tell you to continue to loot within the castle?” Irrien asked. “Is this where you have been commanded to be?”

      Their expressions told him everything he needed to know. He’d ordered his men to be systematic about the looting of the city, but this was not systematic. He demanded discipline from his warriors, and this was not disciplined.

      “You thought that you would just take what you wanted,” Irrien said.

      “It is Felldust’s way!” one of the men protested.

      “Yes,” Irrien agreed. “The strong take from the weak. That is why I took this castle. Now you are trying to take from me. Do you think I am weak?”

      He didn’t have his great sword anymore, and his wounded shoulder still ached too much for it even if he’d had it, so he pulled out a long knife instead. His first thrust caught the youngest of the three through the base of the jaw, driving up through his skull.

      He spun, slamming the second of the three back into a wall as he scrabbled for his own weapons. Irrien parried a sword stroke from the other, cutting his throat effortlessly on the backswing, shoving him away as he fell.

      The one he’d pushed away was backing up now, his hands in the air.

      “Please, Stone Irrien. It was a mistake. We didn’t think.”

      Irrien stepped in and stabbed him without a word, striking again and again. He held the weakling up so that he wouldn’t fall too soon, ignoring the way his wound hurt with the effort of it. This wasn’t just a killing, it was a demonstration.

      When he finally let the man collapse, Irrien turned to the others, spreading his hands, wanting to make the challenge obvious.

      “Does anyone here think that I am weak enough that you can simply demand things of me? Does anyone think that they can take from me?”

      They were silent, of course. Irrien left them trailing in his wake as he stalked toward the throne room.

      His throne room.

      Where even now, his prize awaited him.

*

      Stephania cringed as Irrien came into the throne room, and she hated herself for it. She knelt next to the same throne that she’d occupied just a short time before, golden chains holding her in place. She’d pulled at them when the room had been empty, but there had been no give in them.

      Irrien stalked toward her, and Stephania forced herself to push down her fear. He’d beaten her, he’d put her in chains, but she had a choice. She could let herself be broken, or she could turn this to her advantage. There would be a way to do that, even with this.

      Being chained beside Irrien’s throne had its advantages, after all. It meant that he planned to keep her. It meant that his men had left her alone, even as they’d dragged off Stephania’s handmaidens and servants for their pleasure. It meant that she was still at the heart of things, even if she didn’t have control over them.

      Yet.

      Stephania watched Irrien as he sat, assessing every line of him, judging him the way a hunter might judge the ground on which her prey lived. It was obvious that he wanted her, or why would he keep her here instead of sending her to some slave pit? Stephania could work with that. He might think that she was his, but soon he would be doing everything she suggested.

      She would play the part of the demur plaything, and she would take back what she’d worked for.

      She waited, listening as Irrien started to deal with the business of the city. Most of it was mundane stuff. How much they had taken. How much there still was to take. How many guards they needed to secure the walls, and how the flow of food would be controlled.

      “We have an offer from a merchant to supply our forces,” one of the courtiers said. “A man named Grathir.”

      Stephania snorted at that, and found Irrien looking down at her.

      “Do you have something to say, slave?”

      She swallowed her urge to snap back at that. “Only that Grathir is notorious for supplying substandard goods. His former business partner is poised to take his business, though. Support him and you might get the supplies you need.”

      Irrien stared at her levelly. “And why are you telling me this?”

      Stephania knew this was her chance, but she had to play it carefully. “I want to show you that I can be useful to you.”

      He didn’t reply, but turned his attention back to the men there. “I will consider it. What is next?”

      Next, it seemed, were petitions from the representatives of the other rulers of Felldust.

      “The Second Stone would like to know when your return to Felldust will be,” one representative said. “There are matters there that require the Five Stones to be together.”

      “Fourth Stone Vexa requires more space for her contingent of ships.”

      “Third Stone Kas sends his congratulations on our shared victory.”

      Stephania ran through the names of the other Stones of Felldust. Cunning Ulren, Kas Forkbeard, Vexa, the only female Stone, Borion the fop. Secondary names compared to Irrien, yet theoretically all but his equals. Only the fact that they weren’t here gave Irrien so much power.

      Along with names, Stephania’s memory supplied interests, weaknesses, desires. Ulren was growing old in Irrien’s shadow, and would have had the First Stone’s seat if the warlord hadn’t taken it.