A hunt was organized the night after the royal train arrived at Blazing Prairie, but not like the noblemen’s hunts Etian had joined before. Lord Clarencio didn’t ride, and apparently, he didn’t use dyrehounds either.

“We don’t keep them on the estate. Our gamesmen will beat the bushes to rustle something up.”

The lord seemed made of easy, inoffensive explanations. No accusations of barbarism, though he must have some opinions on the subject, since he’d been raised by the man who had lobbied to abolish the pit houses and free the dyre.

In the short time since their arrival, Etian was already sick of Clarencio’s lack of attack or retreat. If he wanted to defy the king like his father had, then he should. If he wanted to lick the king’s boots, then by the strong gods, why didn’t he just get down on his hands and knees and do it already?

For the hunt, Etian had been loaned a high-headed mahogany stallion from one of the Agata’s hunting lines, and he was eager to let the beast run. More than that, however, he wanted to force some sort of definitive statement from Lord Clarencio.

So, he rode at a sedate pace alongside Clarencio’s strange hunting buggy. The contraption was similar to a racing trap, barely wider than the trotting horse that pulled it, with only the seat, footboard, and traces required to drive, no spare leather or wood that could get tangled in forested areas.

Clarencio noticed Etian studying the lines of the buggy.

“I had my stablemaster design it.” The lord smiled. “One must make certain concessions if one is crippled and wants to keep up with his peers.”

“Depends on how one defines keeping up,” Etian said. The majority of the hunting party had moved ahead, following the gamesmen as they beat the golden stands of tall grass and bramble patches.

Excited shouting. Both men craned their necks and Clarencio stretched up in his seat to see over the next swell in the land. A hail of arrows flickered across the night sky, most of them missing the escaping pheasant.

Etian nocked an arrow and drew. The bowstring twanged. His arrow was the only one in the flight that hit the bird. Immediately, a handful of braggarts in the main body of the hunting party began good-natured arguments about which one of them had killed it.

Clarencio gave a low whistle. “Impressive. With the crosswind, too.”

The stallion sidled restively, bumping the bow against Etian’s glasses. Etian brought his mount back under control and corrected the sliding lenses.

“I checked your birth records before I left Siu Rial,” the prince said. “We’re both Josean-blessed. Let’s dispense with the pleasantries the rest of them observe.”

Clarencio chuckled. “Fair enough, but without the pleasantries, what do we have to say to one another?”

“Start with why you wanted to join House Mattius and House Agata.”

“That’s an easy one. House Agata’s been stealing stock from the horse nomads across border for years. I was going to stop them.”

“You didn’t want them for access to ore veins you’ve found stretching onto their land?”

“That, too. As the old swordmaster wrote, ‘Never take a step without at least two reasons.’”

“Except to block a deathblow,” Etian countered. “Are your mines depleted?”

“Not yet, but a smart man would have a contingency in place, don’t you think?”

“A contingency that disappeared yesterday on the carriage ride.”

Clarencio shrugged. “I’ll come up with another.”

“What does it matter to you if the Agatas steal stock from the nomads?” Etian asked. “They aren’t Children of Night.”

“House Agata isn’t just taking horseflesh. They enslave the men to work their herds and train their beasts, and they keep the women and children as insurance. If a man displeases them somehow—say, demanding enough to eat or getting too sick to work—they chop off his wife’s or child’s arm.” The lord shot the crown prince a scornful grin. “It’s very effective, but short-sighted. What will they do with a generation of armless young men?”

“A smarter man would have saved the boys from dismemberment, focused it on the women and girls. But that isn’t why you care, either, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Clarencio agreed. “They could more easily buy horses from the nomads, then turn around and sell them for double what they paid. They’re bleeding gold for housing and food—such as they see fit to provide for their slaves, anyway.”

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Etian caught the thrust of his blade that time. “Honest trade with the nomads. Because that’s what a good man would do.”

“It wouldn’t even take a good one, just one not wholly evil.”

This was sounding very similar to Izakiel when he got drunk and wanted to argue. No wonder that scornful smile had seemed so familiar. Imagine a Josean-blessed Izakiel. The blood magic tutors would have died with joy.

And Etian would only have seen the throne from behind while he guarded it.

To get a better measure on the man, Etian changed tempo.

“My sister is less than half your age.”

“I’ve known older men who married younger girls.”

“Your mother was a child bride.”

“So was yours.” The lordling studied the distant hunting party. “Your Highness is sixteen now? You’re a year older than the former Queen Isia ever got.” Clarencio smirked sidelong at Etian. “You see, you’re not the only one who studies his opponents before they step onto the battlefield.”

“You would have been better served to study my father. Then you would have seen his revelation about your marriage request coming.”

Clarencio hmmed thoughtfully. “I’ve studied the king, but I have yet to stumble upon a reason he would chain his daughter to a man who might never produce an heir healthy enough to live past childhood. Any insight you’d care to share?”

“The lack of an heir would prevent any conflicts over succession.”

“Which we both already know is too simple an answer. If a Josean-blessed swordsman only takes a step when he has at least two reasons, then an Eketra-blessed king won’t do it for less than five.”

“To watch the House Mattius line die out, then,” Etian suggested. “The crown absorbs the mines and other assets, then establishes a more tractable lord to manage the land and peasants. Or do away with that altogether, set up a warden over the mines, and start sending prisoners to work them.”

“At best, we’re up to four reasons.”

No, they were up to four guesses, and likely those were all just benefits next to what Hazerial was truly after. They could speculate all night and only dance around the truth.

“It’s not the blade you see coming that kills you,” Clarencio muttered. He was paraphrasing the old swordsmaster’s writings again, but that was more or less what Etian had been thinking.

Ahead, the gamesmen set off, crashing through the brush with their beating sticks, the hunting party following along.

Etian nudged the stallion into motion. With a tap of the reins, the trotter pulled the lord’s buggy alongside.

They had been looking at the matter as if it were a battlefield map, Josean’s blessing leading them to think in terms of resources and terrain and manpower. What value would Eketra see in this maneuver? Knowledge, control, and dominion were her currencies.

Etian cast a glance over at Clarencio as he maneuvered his buggy around a tangle of brambles. The answer might have more to do with the Lord of the Cinterlands than it did with the Cinterlands themselves.

“There wasn’t any mention of your leg in the records,” Etian said.

“Distinctive gait, isn’t it?” Clarencio raised his voice a little to be heard over the rustling of the wheels in the tall grass. “At the risk of sounding like a has-been who can’t let go of past perceived glories, I made quite the fencer before I happened upon it. I doubt I would have been anything next to the second coming of Josean,” he said, tipping his head in acknowledgement of the present company, “but I trained with my father’s Thorns and managed to best them from time to time. It was one of them who gave me this souvenir. Hamstrung me the night of the massacre. The leg healed like a stone pillar.”

Etian didn’t bother to keep the skepticism from his expression. A Thorn couldn’t harm a member of his master’s bloodline; his grafting wouldn’t allow it. Except in two potential cases.

“It’s common knowledge that you assisted the Royal Thorns the night of your father’s arrest. Are you implying that you actually raised your blade against him?”

Clarencio smiled. “Is that too much of a stretch for your imagination?”

“Not if you wanted to appear loyal to the king. Your father’s Thorn might have inflicted the injury to make your claim more credible, thereby protecting you and fulfilling his grafting.”

“I concede the possibility, but that isn’t what happened.” Clarencio shoved the boot of his working leg against the footboard to push himself back onto the buggy’s narrow seat. “I agree with my father’s policies on ending brutality to the nomads, abolishing dyre sport, and ending the bloodslave trade. What I disagreed with were my father’s methods. After decades spent arguing himself blue in the face, he gave up trying to change the laws. Decided a coup was the solution. A coup he would put it into action by stealing three young men and magically enslaving them to himself.”

“If you’re going to vilify becoming a Thorn, you’ve chosen the wrong audience.” Etian guided the stallion around a hole where the head of a stream had cut a muddy opening in the waves of tall grass only to disappear beneath the ground again a few feet later. “If not for a last-minute change of plans from the strong gods, I would be preparing to be grafted to my brother right now. I gladly would have died for him. I still would.”

“Trust me when I say I understand the sentiment. If I could’ve saved my sister, I would have done it in a heartbeat.” Clarencio watched the gamesmen chopping at a small stand of fragrant sumac. “I won’t argue about your noble intentions. Duty is a high calling. All I’ll say is I don’t agree with any man being born in chains to another man, no matter how our ancient ancestors did it. We all ought to be our own masters, as Khinet was.”

“None of that explains why you would turn on your father.”

“He set aside his convictions, believing that the ends would justify his means. I believe the means should be judged even more harshly than the ends, because in them our true nature is revealed. As the old swordmaster wrote, ‘What good is it if I win the war but lose my soul?’”

“‘Victory at all costs is the ultimate defeat,’” Etian supplied the rest of the proverb.

“And defeat is one thing no Josean-blessed warrior can stomach,” Clarencio said. “Better to be a crippled and idealistic winner than a hale and jaded loser, wouldn’t you say?”

Etian didn’t get a chance to answer. A bevy of quail burst out of the red-tinged sumac leaves and took wing.

The crippled lord let the reins drop across his stiffened leg. In one practiced motion, he drew his longbow and shot.

A cry of excitement went up as a pair of fowl tumbled from the sky, pinned together by a single arrow.